


The Dark Flame of the North

by Flame_Of_Ice



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-24 00:36:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 24,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flame_Of_Ice/pseuds/Flame_Of_Ice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winter has arrived and with it the White Walkers, who descend upon a Westeros ravaged by war, famine and the changing season. The surviving Starks are scattered, while overseas and in the south Daenerys and Aegon seek power; unaware of the third dragon rising from the pyre to fight a far greater threat in the icy north. </p><p>Defeating the Others will require the combined strength of all Westeros and a union between its two greatest houses; the direwolves and the dragons, the old Westeros and the new, the ice and the fire. Only one man  can unite them all in the fight for survival. Prophesy calls him the Prince Who Was Promised. However the smallfolk of Westeros have a different title for him; the Dark Flame of the North.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Eddard

**Author's Note:**

> GRRM owns all - I own nothing. Sigh. This fic centres around Jon Snow, assumes R+L=J and is Jon/Arya. If that's not your taste, this fic probably won't be for you. 
> 
> Constructive criticism is welcome. Enjoy!

Prologue - EDDARD

Eddard was pushed to his knees, his head placed on the block. Panic, confusion and fear gripped him. This was not what was supposed to happen. _Gods….my children, my wife, my home. What will happen to it all…gods protect them._

Then white hot agony enveloped him. It could have lasted a split second, or days, he couldn’t tell and then…..he was drifting. Bodiless. _I’m dead._ Ned felt his soul threatening to drift apart, like the scent of summer being blown away, but panic gripped him. _This is wrong. Winter is coming and……_ in his last few seconds of awareness, revelations tumbled one after the other, fast as lightening….

_Stannis knows the truth, he will fight the Lannisters for the throne. Renly wants the throne too…he said so. The north will rise in rebellion after my death. There will be blood and chaos and the realm will crack apart…..and winter is coming._

_Winter is coming……the Watch Ranger I beheaded, who claimed he saw White Walkers. Gods._ With the clarity imparted by death, Ned knew it was true, his thoughts flying much faster than they ever had in life. _Winter is coming, a terrible winter, and the realm will be broken, with no true ruler to lead it and protect it. Without a true leader, all will be destroyed._

Somehow Ned knew it was true….. _the Lannisters will leech the realm dry, neither Stannis or Renly would make a good king, Stannis is too unbending, Renly too flighty and careless, and the ironborn cannot produce a good king. Daenerys Targaryen has become Dothraki and she is a world away and she is a woman…the high lords would accept her as Queen Regent, possibly, but not to sit the Iron Throne._

All these thoughts sped through Ned’s rapidly dimming mind in a split second of recognition.

_The realm will need a good king, a strong king to lead them through a terrible winter….the realm needs a true heir. It needs…Jon. My beloved nephew…Lya’s boy. Rhaegar’s son. Always so serious, thoughtful and diplomatic…but strong too…and caring. I raised him, I know the boy he is and I’ve seen the shadows of the man he is becoming. He has the fire of the Targaryens and the strength of the Starks…and he is at the Wall. Gods, what have I done? Why didn’t I tell him the truth before I came south? Howland know, but what if Howland dies before the truth can be spoken? What have I done?_

With fading awareness and growing urgency, the departing soul of Eddard Stark clung on to consciousness and reached out for his nephew, flailing in the dark for some spark of a connection. Nothing.

 _He is my nephew, not my son. Our blood is close, but not close enough for me to reach him now. Perhaps….._ Eddard reached out again.

 _Robb…….Robb……Bran….._ Eddard felt it. A clear connection. Bran. _Bran._ Just like that, Eddard was in the tombs of Winterfell, and Bran was in front of him, looking small and confused.

_Father?_

_Bran hear me. Hear me my son. Winter is coming and the realm will bleed and die without a true king. Jon is the heir. Jon can hold the land together. Jon must be king. Do you hear me Bran?_

_Father? Is that you?_

_Winter is coming, Bran! Remember our words. Remember what I am telling you. Winter is coming and Jon must be king. Jon is the true heir._

_Father, why are we down here? What about Jon?_

_King Jon. Winter is coming, Bran! Jon must be king. Help him. Find him and help him…_

The connection started to slip and the scene disappeared as Eddard felt his soul splitting and drifting apart. _I love you, my son. My precious boy……_ it was a whisper of a whisper. Carried on the wind. He was the wind. He was the grass and the soil. He was the weirwood trees, and the sentinel pines and the oaks. One last fragment of thought escaped before he melted into the land.

 

_I thought I was saving him for Lyanna, but I was saving him for the realm, so he could save us. Westeros, the north, my family……my family…_

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Leagues away, Bran Stark’s eyes shot open where he lay, crippled, in his bed in Winterfell. He had dreamed of Father, but the dream was already fading….


	2. JON

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter commences at the end of A Dance with Dragons. I subscribe to the theory that AA=PTWP. Please don't shoot me if you disagree. 
> 
> As you all know, this is GRRM's sandpit; I'm just playing in it.

**Jon**

Awareness came to Jon slowly, like a fog settling over him. He was floating; empty and warm. He felt as though he was forgetting something important. His mind scrambled for some memory of where he has been last. _Screams. Shouts. Knives in the darkness. A howl. A wolf’s howl. Ghost._

The memory of being attacked returned to him then; the steel sliding into his neck, back and belly. _I must be dead then,_ Jon thought, and he was filled with a strange sense of disappointment. _I sacrificed everything I loved to stay at the Wall; my family, my sword arm in Robb’s war, Ygritte, a chance to be Lord of Winterfell. I stayed at the Wall to do my duty while everything I loved was lost, and for what? What did I achieve? Who did I save? The White Walkers will destroy whatever the wars have left of Westeros and I failed. As a Brother of the Watch, as Lord Commander; I failed them all. I would give all I am to save Westeros from what is coming, if I could, but it is too late now…._

He opened his eyes and saw a fire, a pyre. It was surrounded by humans, tall and short; some black-clad, some fur-clad and some clad in metal. A woman in red stood near the fire. Words were being spoken by one of the black brothers: “regardless of what each of us thought of his decisions as Lord Commander, he was a brave man, and a good one, and now his watch is done”. 

“..and now his watch is done”, repeated the black-clad men. _My funeral pyre,_ Jon realized, _and I am inside of Ghost, watching_. _That is my body burning._ Oddly enough, Ghost’s nose could not smell burning flesh. 

Suddenly a huge flame leapt from the pyre, and then another. The flames started to reach higher and higher into the sky, and the men surrounding it muttered and back away slightly. Only the red priestess stayed stock still, her eyes wide and fixed on Jon’s body. 

Jon became aware of Ghost’s consciousness, hovering alongside his inside their shared body. _We should leave now, Ghost._ Jon thought. _Before they see you and attack you. You should let me go, let me die, and run free._ Ghost, however, did not comply. Instead he seemed to disregard Jon’s thoughts, and padded into the fire-light, towards the pyre. As the men became aware of his presence, they backed away. None of them made threatening gestures, so Ghost paid them no mind. He stopped beside the pyre and looked at the red woman, who looked back at him. 

Then Jon became conscious of a pressure, a forceful pushing. _Ghost is trying to push my soul out of his body_ , Jon realized. _He wants to be free of me_. With deep sadness, Jon embraced the direwolf’s soul with his own briefly, until he felt Ghost push at him again. He let go…. 

 ….and slammed back into his own body. It felt like he’d fallen and hit the ground, hard. He felt winded and strangely numb. Slowly, he became conscious of the various parts of his body, and a tickling sensation, all over. _Why am I not dead?_ He could feel his hands were grasping something. 

He opened his eyes, and immediately closed them again, overcome by the brightness of the flames all around him. He realized the tickling he felt was the flames. _Why am I not screaming in agony? How am I alive?_ Slowly, Jon opened his eyes again, and stared wonderingly at the flames all around him. _I should be terrified. I should be in pain. Instead I feel…_ Awakened? Invigorated? No, that didn’t quite describe it. Jon licked his lips; the moisture immediately evaporating. _I feel bright and whole and strong,_ he decided. 

Slowly Jon put aside the object in his hands… _Longclaw_ …and used his arms to brace himself as he slowly sat up. Dimly, he heard a scream from beyond the flames. Still feeling well, Jon swung his legs off the burning logs and stood. There was yelling now. He stepped out of the flames and hundreds of men stood before him; most were gaping. _My sword_ , Jon remembered, and stepped briefly back into the flames, grasping the pommel when he spotted the Valyrian steel gleaming brightly. He stepped out again. 

Gasps filled the air and Jon noted most of the men were now gaping at his sword hand. He looked down and saw that the sword blade was wreathed in flames; yellow, orange and bright white. Jon could feel the heat coming off it. 

Jon heard bow-strings being drawn and put his hand out before him defensively. “No, please. I’m not a wight”. Ghost was in front of him in an instant, teeth bared at the crowd, and Jon ruffled the fur behind his ears. “Shhh, Ghost. It’s all right”. 

Melisandre reached out to touch Longclaw and drew her hand back at the last second. 

“It burns true.” She whispered. “It is no illusion.” She gazed at him with wide eyes, before murmuring to herself, “Ice and fire.” She looked up at the ragged flag of the now deceased Ser Patrek, and whispered “When the red star bleeds.” 

Melisandre’s eyes widened, if possible, and she stared at Jon as though she could not believe her eyes. 

“I was sure it was Stannis.” She whispered. “So sure. The gods lead me to him, and he lead me here.”

Melisandre suddenly dropped to the ground. “The Azor Ahai is Reborn!” she exclaimed loudly. 

“My liege.” Melisandre exclaimed loudly, gazing up at Jon with a worshipping look. 

Jon felt a headache coming on. 


	3. Davos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Davos! He is such a cool character, so I've used him in one or two later chapters. The chapter is short. I'll slowly be trying to draw the Starks back together....they're just all so far apart. Sniff!

**Davos**

Davos Seaworth was miserable. He was cold, wet, hungry and tired. He hadn’t seen his wife and surviving sons in many months. He hadn’t spoken to another living soul, in words at least, for over a month. And lastly, but most importantly, he was trekking across a bleak island that was bound to be the death of him. 

Skagos. 

Subject of a hundred horror stories; a bard’s favourite location for a shipwreck-gone-wrong song. 

Davos and Wex had landed their small boat here two weeks ago, and since then they had been travelling steadily inland. They had used up the last of their food supplies two nights ago and Davos’ stomach had grumbled for a day and a half, but had gone suspiciously quiet since then. 

Davos stopped hiking for a moment and took in his desolate surrounding. The sky was dark grey, a heavy snow fell all around them and there was not a creature or discernible landmark to be seen in any direction. 

Wex stopped and looked back, which spurred Davos to start moving again, placing his feet carefully as he proceeded. Five days ago he had taken a nasty tumble on a patch of rocky black ice. It was dangerous not to watch where you walked on Skagos.  

_Everything about this island is dangerous. Why in the name of the Gods would someone bring an heir to a great house to such a place?_

Davos answered his own question as he continued to climb. 

_Because his guardian is a wilding herself. Unlike Wex and I, she has no reason to fear them._

When they reached the top of a snowy incline, Davos stopped to catch his breath and gulp down some icy water. _We need to hunt for food_ , he thought. They had come across nothing resembling vegetation in the last two weeks, which told Davos that the only food they would find now was meat. However, Davos was no hunter and he suspected that neither was Wex, despite the lad’s brilliant knife throwing skill. Moreover, the wildlife on this island was not exactly tame or normal.

At the start of the second week on this gods-forsaken bit of land, Davos and Wex had a close call with the local wildlife. They had stumbled into a clearing and come face to face with three unicorns. Davos had stood, stunned, while the animals stood watching the men warily, ready to bolt. Of course, Davos had told himself they couldn’t be unicorns. Unicorns didn’t exist. Everyone knew that. However knowing it to be so had not changed the fact that the three horses had horns on their foreheads. 

Davos and Wex had started to circle the horned horses slowly, making for the covered path on the other side of the clearing when suddenly something huge and furry had erupted from that path. It had taken Davos a few seconds to realize that he was looking at a bear. Davos had seen bear hides before, decorating the floors of great halls, and none had compared to the size of this black beast. 

The unicorns had frozen and so had Davos and Wex, as the bear had swiveled its head, weighing up two different sets of prey. Davos had prayed hard and hoped that Wex, crouched next to him, was doing the same. When one of the unicorns panicked and bolted, the bear made its decision and lumbered after it, while Davos and Wex had used the distraction to run for their lives. They had kept running for over an hour, until they finally felt safe enough to rest again.

_Black ice, black bears and an empty belly._ Right now, clambering along the icy path, the only thing Davos felt grateful for was the fact that they had not yet encountered any wildlings. Davos knew such an encounter would be necessary to find young Lord Rickon, however he suspected that the wildings would be ten times as deadly as the bear.  

Davos’ thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a guttural cry of warning; the closest Wex could come to a shout. Davos started to turn in the lad’s direction when something big hit him from behind and he fell heavily beneath its weight. The weight lifted from him and Davos rolled over onto his back to see what had hit him; he came face to face with black fur, green feral eyes and long canine teeth that dripped with slaver. 

Davos couldn’t tear his eyes away from the huge black direwolf that stood over him; its eyes were menacing emeralds and its soft low growl seemed to reverberate through his body and sent icicles of terror creeping up his spine. The creature was easily twice as wide as him, and Davos guessed that if he stood up, the direwolf would reach his shoulder. Davos didn’t dare stand up. He didn’t dare move a muscle. 

_This beast could snap me in two as easy as blinking._

“Guard, Shaggy.” The voice was young, as was the face that suddenly appeared at the direwolf’s shoulder. 

Davos took in unruly red hair, but it was the lad’s eyes that held him. Blue and hard; mistrust swirling in them. Eyes that were too old for such a young face.  

“Well now.” Came a woman’s voice from behind Davos. “It looks like Shaggy has found his dinner already.”

Davos stared into the young, hard face of Rickon Stark. He had heard that Lord Eddard Stark had been a good man: honourable and just. 

_I can only hope the son takes after the father._


	4. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is nowhere near perfect, but if I try to get it perfect it will never get posted. It's hard to predict what GRRM will do with Jon next, because there are so many different places he could send him. Hopefully you don't all get bored with Jon's thought processes, but I wanted to explain why he makes the choices he does in my little fanfic. 
> 
> I'm aware that there are gaps I haven't filled, such as all the in-fighting at Castle Black while Jon is 'dead'. Sorry - I have a limited attention span. 
> 
> Constructive criticism welcome!

Jon’s headache was growing.

In the long hour since Melisandre’s dramatic announcement he had managed to calm the men around him and get some sense out of them about what had occurred since he ‘died’. Bowen Marsh had taken control of the Watch, if it could be said that he was in control. From what Jon had gathered, the hours between his death and his rebirth on the pyre had been filled with accusations, threats, arguments on how to proceed and lots of hot air. Bowen stood to one side now, watching Jon with a look of awed fear on his face. Jon could see Tormund finger his axe as his eyed Bowen; Jon was a little surprised that Bowen was still alive, given Tormund’s obvious enmity towards him. 

Despite Bowen’s attack on him, in one sense Jon was glad the man was still alive. Pragmatically, Jon realized that no-one knew the Watch as well as Bowen did and if he had died, his skills and knowledge would have been extremely difficult to replace.  

Now Jon stood in front of a band of black brothers who, on one hand, seemed to be seeking direction from him, and on the other hand, seemed distinctly uncomfortable in his presence. His face filled with dread, Bowen Marsh came forward and spoke: 

“When we put you on the pyre and it started burning we said the words ‘and now his watch is done’. You were dead. You died. And your watch ended with your death. You’ve been released from the Night’s Watch, Lord Snow.” 

Marsh trembled as he said the words. The look on his face said it all. Jon was an outsider, an anomaly, a mystery. Yet again. He had never truly belonged with the Starks in Winterfell, and for that reason he had come to the Wall and “gained a whole new family”, as Tyrion had once put it to him. But now that second family was rejecting him. 

He hadn’t belonged with the Starks and he didn’t belong here either. Jon had known that deep down inside for some time now. When he had decided to go south to confront Ramsay he had been sure that his reasons were good ones; almost certain that Westeros would not survive the eventual onslaught of the Others unless it had Stannis’ army and Mance’s wildings defending the north. 

Bolton had threatened the Watch, should Jon fail to confront him. Jon had also known that no-one else was well-placed as he was, to lead the attack on Bolton. He, Jon, knew Winterfell inside out. Knew its weaknesses, knew its strengths. And unlike anyone else at the Wall, unlike the wildings and unlike even the best of Stannis’ soldiers, Jon had been trained to command such attacks. Trained by the best: Eddard Stark. Also, Jon couldn’t deny that he had personal reasons for wanting to retake Winterfell. It had been his home, the only one he had ever know, and that whoreson Bolton sat festering in it like a sore. 

Jon had known deep down for some time now that the war against the Others would not be won unless political alliances were forged and held strong. The problem was, no-one else seemed to be forging such alliances. None of the high lords, not north or south or west, none of them were banding together to fight the threat. Except Mance, Stannis and Jon. 

Westeros was running out of time, rapidly, and she was nowhere near united. In his time as Lord Commander it had worried Jon almost constantly. His two greatest allies were trapped by Bolton, so Jon had tried to act. It had been his undoing. His vow to the Night’s Watch had left no room for creating political alliances; even if that was what was needed of him. 

So here he was; ringed by wildings, Stannis’ soldiers and black brothers, staring at him with a mixture of expressions. Some wore heavy faces and some looked hopeful. Most, however, wore expressions of awe, shock or fascination. _If I don’t belong here, where do I belong?_ He asked himself. 

Oddly enough, the answer came easily to him. _Out there. In Westeros. Stannis and Mance need help. Alliances need building and even if I’ve made a poor fist of commanding the Watch, I’ve managed to forge an alliance or two over the past year. That’s what I’m good at. Maybe that’s why I’ve been released from my vows. Maybe that’s what the gods intend for me, by letting me live._

_I’ve been trying to be something I’m not. I’ve spent two years of my life trying to chain myself to the Wall, but I’m a direwolf of the North_ , he thought, looking at Ghost. _Direwolves are meant to run free. To hunt, to go find the fight, not wait for it to come to them. I stayed at the Wall and did my duty when Father died, when Robb marched, when my siblings suffered and died, when Winterfell was lost; through so much. I’ve been itching to go find the fight. Now is the time._

_Bowen Marsh is no leader, but he will at least be an authority figure who mayhaps can hold things together until a new Lord Commander is found._

Jon looked at the men of the Watch. “I’ll go then. I’ll do what I intended to do yesterday – I will travel south to Winterfell to free Mance and Stannis. The war against the Others will be lost unless the free folk, northmen, southrons, westermen and eastmen of Westeros unite. We need Mance and Stannis for that.”

Jon turned in a circle. “I will make the same request now that I did yesterday – travel with me to Winterfell if you hope to reclaim your leaders.”

Then Jon turned to Bowen Marsh and spoke loudly for all to hear. “I am no longer Lord Commander of the Watch, so I have no power to make decisions on behalf of the Watch now. But of you, First Steward, I make this request: Do not try to send away the free folk who man the other towers. You know as well as I that the White Walkers are coming and when they arrive, they will find any weak part of the Wall and attack it with all their strength. The Wall is only as strong as those who defend it, and if it is not fully manned, the Wall will not stand for long against the Others. The free folk hate the Others every bit as much as the Watch does, if not more so. They will fight the White Walkers to the bitter end. The free folk are no longer the enemy of the Watch; there is a greater enemy now and we must join together to fight them.”

Jon turned in a circle as his voice rolled over the grounds of Castle Black. 

“The vow of the Nights Watch is to protect the realm of men against threats. Not to protect only those men who adhere to the same traditions as you, who look the same as you or bow to the same leaders as you; but to protect all men, women and children from the dark night beyond the Wall. Northmen, southrons, free folk, even the giants. They are all people who have a right to live and be protected from the Others. 

That is the vow you made when you joined the Watch. Do not forget it. For even though I am no longer a man of the Night’s Watch, I will not forget it. I am the shield that guards the realms of men, and so are you.”

Silence greeted this announcement, until Iron Emmett stepped forward. 

“I am the shield that guards the realms of men.” Emmett called out.

“I am the shield that guards the realms of men.” This came from Horse. Another watchman repeated it, then another, and another, until the square rang with the vow.   

Melisandre came to stand by Jon’s side. 

“I should stay.” He spoke quietly. “I feel as though it will all fall apart the moment I leave. There is no-one here ready for the role of Lord Commander. I can tell Bowen what measures I think he should take, while a new Commander is chosen, but the likelihood of him doing as I say…I have no power over the Watch now.”

Melisandre regarded him for a moment and then spoke in her deep, exotic tones. “Power lies where men think it lies. If you threaten Marsh with the wrath of the gods, he may accept your guidance on how to run the Watch, even though you are no longer part of the Watch. After all, he has just watched you return from the dead. If that is not the work of the gods, then nothing is.”

The red woman returned her gaze to the assembled men and continued speaking.

“If the Watch was meant to fail, it will fail. If the gods mean the Watch to survive, they will send someone fit for the role of Lord Commander. You cannot save everyone, my liege. The Wall is only a barrier. No matter how strongly it is held, and how well the Watch is lead, if the enemy is strong enough, the Wall will only delay them. The Wall is not the ultimate weapon against the Others.”

Jon looked at her. “Oh?” He raised an eyebrow. “And what is the ultimate weapon, then?”

The priestesses red eyes focused on him, flickering over his face. 

“You are.” She replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter - Arya hears about Jon's death, but not about his return from death. Ooh! She's gonna get bad-ass. Valar Morgulis. Bring the heat, Lady She-Wolf!


	5. Arya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wish my mind was that brilliant, and these characters were mine. Sadly GRRM is the master. I bow to his superior imagination.

**Arya**

The girl with no name stood silently in the gloom. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but she could still see very little; it was all shadows and impressions. So she relied on her other senses too, just as she had learned to do when she had been blind. 

She felt a soft breeze drift over her calves; there was a vent or a door somewhere behind her. She breathed in only through her nose; the air was musty and damp, but there was a hint of spice there somewhere; a hint of the man hunting her. She listened. Nothing rustled. Nothing moved; at least not that she could discern. 

Then the air flow changed, cut off for a second, and while she didn’t hear a sound, she had a sense of a footfall, just behind her. The girl acted on instinct. She dropped to a crouch and simultaneously swung her left leg around in a powerful arc. The man standing just behind her jumped, lightening quick, and narrowly avoided being felled like a tree. 

The no-name girl stood, but she did not attack. She had learned caution and patience in the House of Black and White. That, and how to forget. 

_Let him come to me._

The man struck, moving swift as a snake, his hand snapping out towards her neck. However the girl was just as quick and she retreated half a step, before launching an attack of her own on his unprotected right side. 

He was ready for it; had predicted it. He grabbed her wrist and twisted her around. Pain lanced up her arm, but she made no noise of protest. Silence was something else she had learned in the House of Black and White. 

She tried several moves to free herself, but he predicted each one and each one sent pain shooting up her arm. Eventually she stilled. 

He pushed her away. In the darkness his face was no more than a shadow; his lithe frame was shrouded.  

“You are still too predictable, acolyte. You must learn to see yourself as your enemy does; from the outside in.”

“Yes, master.” She replied. 

“In your free hour tonight you must meditate on this.”

“Yes, master.”

“What is your name?”

“I have no name, master.”

The man considered her carefully. “You lie.” He replied, before sighing softly. 

“Who do you serve?”

“I serve the Many-Faced God, master.”  

He considered her silently for a heartbeat, before telling her to meet him as usual at sunrise on the morrow. 

Dismissed from her lesson, the girl with no name slipped out of the room and down the passage. She had just over an hour to herself now. She knew she should do as she was instructed and meditate on her lesson, however an untamed part of her soul refused to bend and demanded some freedom from the constant training. She wanted to explore the city for an hour and hear the gossip. But first….

She slipped down the steps outside and crouched beside the slightly loose stone. She looked all around her, reaching out with all her senses. Nothing moved; there was no sound nearby. She knew she should wait until later at night, but she might not get a chance to look later and she craved it.

She lifted the loose stone and reached in. Her hand grasped a small hilt and she pulled it out. In the dim moonlight she pulled the sword free of its scabbard and gazed at it. 

_Needle_. 

The small sword brought back so many memories and despite her best efforts, the girl with no name was swamped with the memories of Arya Stark. The time Father had told her that swords were not toys, as he gently ran a hand over her head. Her mother, exasperated, calling for her to come in from the training yards and join the other girls at their needlework. Robb and Bran, practicing with bow and arrow, while Rickon looked on. Sansa, rolling her eyes as Arya yet again said something inappropriate.

Jon. Her hand tightened around the sword as she struggled to hold back tears. Of all her siblings, she still missed Jon the most, and of all of them, he was the only one she knew was still alive. Sansa, she wasn’t sure about, but Jon….

_Don’t think about him. Don’t think about that time in your life. It’s gone. It’s gone and it can never come back. Jon commands the Wall now, and will do so for the rest of his days. Let go. Arya Stark is gone._

Despite herself, a memory surfaced as she looked out over the moonlit canal. A memory of her and Jon, by moonlit water. She had been eight and she had just fought with her mother because of the bird’s nest of tangles her hair had resembled after a day of fun. It had been an angry fight, in which her mother had called her ‘unladylike’. Arya still remember the stab of hurt she had felt at her mother’s disappointed expression and the physical pain as Catelyn had yanked at her hair.

Clutching the hairbrush she had wrenched out of her mother’s hand, Arya had run to the pool in the godswood and there she had found Jon, lying flat out by the pool and gazing up at the sky. Jon had sat up and Arya had promptly ranted to him about her mother, knowing he would listen. 

He did. He listened and commiserated and recommended a tight braid in her hair next time, before she start rough-housing with the boys. He gave her a hug and then took the hairbrush from her hand, turned her so she sat in front of him, and he proceeded to very gently brush each and every snarl from her hair. It had taken a full hour. Arya had loved it. She had kept very quiet and still and by the time he had finished she had been tingling from the gentle care. 

_Stop it!_ She told herself now. She was wasting valuable time. She still had enough time to visit one or two of the taverns and linger for a few minutes to catch some gossip. Maybe hear a song.  

She returned Needle to its hiding place, replaced the stone and ran into the heart of the city. First she visited the Sign of the Drowned Goose. It was packed with people and the crowd was raucous. She hunkered down in a corner, unobserved, and enjoyed the simple pleasure of watching those around her. She heard rumours of dragons in the east, and talk of business deals with Pentos. She watched two courtesans entertain a rich merchant. 

She moved on. 

At The Dancing Dove the inn-keeper smiled at her and gave her a heel of bread and a mug of cheap wine. She accepted the offering with a small smile and again found a quiet spot to watch. 

She listened to the gossip with only one ear, until a thread of conversation caught her attention.    

“…yeah, well, this is the second Lord Commander they’ve lost in a year. The black brother I spoke to at Eastwatch said he was killed by his own men.”

Arya felt a cold fist squeeze her stomach. They couldn’t mean what she thought they meant. They couldn’t. 

“Hardly surprisin’ though, is it.” A second man commented. “They’re all thieves and cut-throats at the Wall. First they killed off the Old Bear, then they kills off the Black Bastard. They’ll all kill each other, before winter’s out, you mark my words. Lord Snow was just one of the first.”

Arya felt her heart stop. Then it started again. Her ears were ringing and a mist had veiled her eyes. A flood of ice-cold emotion ran through her, leaving her shivering, but she couldn’t have named the emotion to save her own life. She couldn’t even have uttered her own name.

She wasn’t conscious of standing up, nor was she aware that she was walking until she found herself looking at the stone steps to the House of Black and White. She was staring at one step in particular. It had a loose stone in it and beneath that loose stone was Needle. 

A sharp stab of anguish wrenched through her chest and drove her to her knees. She had thought herself beyond strong emotions, after all she had already lost, but now she knew otherwise. 

_Killed by his own men._ Her fingers scrabbled at the loose stone. _By his own men! Jon!_

Jon, who had made her feel normal when no-one else could; who had a smile like sunshine when he wore one, who watched the world quietly through grey, intelligent eyes. Who missed nothing and expected the world to give him very little. Jon, who had gently brushed her hair in the moonlight for an hour, just to please her.

Distantly, she heard a keening, moaning sound. The kind of sound a distressed, dying creature makes. Distantly, she recognized that she was the one making that sound. 

She pulled Needle out and the keening noise stopped. She stared long and hard at the sword. Minutes passed. After an indeterminate amount of time, she became aware of someone standing nearby. It was the kindly man, and he wore a kindly expression on his face. 

He looked at the sword and he looked at her face. He asked her only one question. 

“What is your name, child?”

Long moments passed as she stared up at him. Then she stood. 

“Arya Stark of Winterfell.” She replied. 

“You are a long way from home, Arya Stark.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps it is time you went home, child.”

“Yes.”

He paused, then reached out and handed her a purse. Arya heard the jingle of coins as she took it. 

“May the Many-Faced God protect you, Arya Stark. Valar morghulis.”

“Valar dohaeris.” She replied. She stood very still a moment, then turned and walked in the direction of the docks. 

“Valar morghulis.” She whispered beneath her breath. It was time for Arya Stark to go home. 

An hour later, she was booked on a ship bound for Eastwatch. 


	6. Daenerys

**Daenerys**

Dany knew from the start that it was one of _those_ dreams. A prophetic one. She remembered the feel of the last one, and this dream felt the same. 

First she saw a green dragon, surrounded by sand. The light shifted and the green dragon was suddenly a blue dragon; then green again as the sun once again peeked through the clouds. The sun came down from the sky and the green dragon chased it, chased it, chased it. While it chased the sun there were shadows drawing in on all sides, threatening the dragon, but it didn’t see them. It saw only the sun as it chased after her. 

Then the dream shifted and Dany was pulled north, over hills and dales; over green and grey landscapes. The further north she was pulled, the dimmer and bleaker the landscape. Green and brown earth turned to grey and white, until she was wholly surrounded by snow. 

Here was another dragon. At first it looked white, but then the light shifted and it was black. Then white again. In a frustrated puff it breathed fire over its head and back, while it broke the ice underfoot as it turned in a circle. 

It stopped moving and Dany followed its gaze to the north. Though it was hundreds of miles from the dragon, Dany clearly saw the wall; it was pure snow and ice and, like the dragon, it changed colour with the light. Dany saw thousands upon thousands of white creatures crawl over the wall and felt an unknown terror crawl over her skin. 

Dany was pulled back to the dragon as it shifted its gaze further north and slightly to the east. There, thousands of fur-clad people stood stranded on a spit of land, as more of the terrible white creatures crawled out of the water towards them. Dany heard the screams of terror and saw the ship wrecked at the water’s edge. Dany saw other fur-clad people trekking towards them, armed with swords and axes, but they were coming too slow. Too slow.  

Dany was pulled yet again back to the white-black dragon. Its gaze shifted in a third direction. Again, her gaze travelled hundreds of miles away to an island shore. More terrible, white creatures. They crawled up onto the shore; then stood and walked inland, towards a castle that was guarded by two bears. Tens of thousands of people huddled within the castle walls. The bears guarding the castle entrance snarled and snapped at the approaching creatures. The creatures kept coming.

The dragon roared its frustration as it circled, eying each potential destination, each threat. Dany felt helpless as she watched it turn, trying to decide which way to go. She felt its need. It needed to be in all three places at once. It couldn’t. It was being forced to decide.

_The dragon must have three heads_. She thought. _If I was there, if there were three of us there, the choice would not be a difficult one. There would be no choice necessary._

The dragon let loose a bout of flame as it leapt into the air and flapped away; its wings pumping hard as it sped towards one of the threats.  

_The dragon must have three heads._

Dany awoke. 

The heat of the sun warmed her and she was disoriented for a second as she tried to get her bearings. She was surrounded by sand and heat, not ice and snow. She sat up and lifted the flimsy tent flap. 

All around her tent Dothraki moved as the khalasar of Khal Jhoqo packed up their camp and prepared to move on. 

Dany flopped back down on her bedding for a moment and considered the dream. The dragons looked like Rhaegal and Viserion, except for their shifting colours, which she didn’t know how to interpret. Why would a dragon be chasing the sun? And when had dragons ever been found in places covered in snow and ice? 

This was not the first time that she had heard the phrase ‘the dragon has three heads’ in a prophetic vision. But it was the first time that Dany felt she might have glimpsed the meaning of that phrase. She hardly dared to believe it, but the message seemed clear to her. There were another two dragons out there somewhere. Two more Targaryens, and they needed her. One was in danger and the other was trying to fight too many battles alone. She didn’t know how it was possible, but she was suddenly certain it was true. Why else would the Gods give her three dragons all at once? She could only ride one at a time, and that was bound to be Drogon. Rhaegal and Viserion had their own riders out there somewhere.

_I have to find them. Together, we could be a formidable force._  

Where could they be? The white-black dragon was surrounded by ice and snow and surely, therefore, must be in Westeros. Winter snows were yet to reach any part of Essos, and wouldn’t do so for some time, if at all.

_If they are in Westeros then I cannot stay in Essos. Even if I succeed in regaining control of Meereen, I cannot continue ruling there if I believe there are other Targaryens in Westeros who need my help._

It had been so long since Dany had had family, any family, that she had almost forgotten the comfort that concept brought with it. Viserys, her weak and cruel brother, had been no true dragon and his death had proved it. But he had still been family. 

_What if these two Targaryens, if they exist, have the blood of the dragon running true through their veins? What if they are strong enough to stand beside me and fight for our heritage like true dragons?_

Dany felt tension coil through her like a snake. She had not spent so much time and energy gaining control of Meereen and keeping control of it, only to walk away now. 

_But Meereen was never the ultimate goal. The Iron Throne is, and I should not lose sight of that fact._

It had taken little effort to convince Khal Jhoqo to take her, and his khalasar, to Meereen. The dothraki had never been slow to join a battle for the spoils of a conquered city, and Jhoqo had seen Drogon as a rather convincing argument that Dany’s forces could win that battle. 

_If only I could be certain that I’m still fighting the right battles._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing prophetic dreams is great fun! Hope someone out there has fun interpreting it, although I suppose for the reader (if not for Dany) it's kind of obvious. Let me know if you've got thoughts about it. Cheers!


	7. Arya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really short chapter here, but it leads immediately into the next chapter. If people are getting a bit angsty for a couple of different characters I promise to try to introduce Aegon, Tyrion and Bran soon(ish).

**Arya**

Hunger gnawed at her belly. It had been so long since she’d eaten. She had little concept of time, but she knew it had been a long while since her last meal. She hunted now, through the snow-covered landscape. Her pack was at her back and ranging out on either side of her. Her nose sniffed sharply at the breeze and caught a scent. Rabbit. No…..hare. She stopped and her pack mimicked her. All was still except the sharp, icy wind. She waited, as long minutes passed…she had not survived this long without learning patience. 

Her pack remained still too, despite their hunger and impatience. They had learned to obey her and when she was still during a hunt, they were still too, or else they paid for it later. 

Several white hares burst out of the cover, several metres ahead of her, and she exploded into action, her pack hot at her heels. 

The hunt was brief. The hares stood no chance of escape against the powerful wolf pack, despite their snowy white fur which blended into the surroundings. She got the largest hare. Her pack squabbled and fought over the rest. 

She stopped eating, temporarily, and raised her head to look north. She sensed it; a drawing in. The tendril of connection that ran between her and her human bond-mate had been drawn as thin and long as it possibly could, but it was shortening again now, and strengthening as it did. Her bond-mate was coming closer. She should also do her part to close the gap. North was not the direction that any sensible creature would head these days; every living thing seemed to be scrambling south. But she was a huntress and a predator; she was queen here and she refused to fear what the north held. 

When the sparse meal was finished, she started padding north. Her pack followed. 

 _________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Arya awoke to the sound of waves sloshing against rocks, the call of sailor shouting instructions and the thump of cargo being off-loaded. She quickly dressed and headed above deck. The sharp, salty tang of the sea hit her nose as she emerged into the weak daylight. 

She disembarked and made the trek up to Eastwatch tower, constantly conscious of the looks she was receiving from the black brothers she passed on the way; looks of suspicion from some and open hunger from others. Some of the hungry looks made her skin crawl and she tried to ensure her hood covered her face and her shapeless cloak was drawn well around her body as she walked up the steep path. On either side of the path there were snow drifts even taller than she was. Arya felt a moment of pity for whoever had to clear the path each day.  

It took her very little effort to slip into Eastwatch tower and almost as little effort to find someone who would talk.


	8. Grenn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, I know, Grenn as a narrator!? But I always rather liked Grenn, lummox that he was, and I wanted to show Arya from an outsiders perspective. Grenn seemed like a good choice for a couple of reasons. Also - I think I've added on at least a year or so to Arya's age, from what it is in Dance with Dragons. I've chosen to portray her as almost a woman grown, with at least three years having passed since she left Winterfell. Enjoy!

**Grenn**

Grenn was sick and tired of counting turnips. Why bother? The Night’s Watch had too many turnips and not enough of anything else. End of story. Yet again he wondered why Jon sent him to this frozen outpost which was, if it could be believed, even more miserable than Castle Black. He knew why Pyp thought Jon had sent them away. According to Pyp, Jon had gotten too big for his boots; puffed up with pride when he was made Lord Commander. 

Grenn knew he wasn’t the sharpest blade around, but he disagreed with Pyp. Jon had still treated them well when he took his new position; still smiled at them when they spoke to him and he didn’t seem to become arrogant or haughty. Instead, Grenn sensed that Jon had forced himself to put distance between himself and his friends. Who knew what went through a man’s head when he suddenly held a position of great responsibility? Grenn couldn’t imagine. He suspected Jon hadn’t liked sending his friends away, but he’d done it anyway and now Grenn was stuck with the consequences. Counting turnips.   

And Jon had been very busy, from the sounds of it. Busy negotiating with wildlings, manning all the towers, dying, coming back to life…..just the usual things a Lord Commander does in his first few months in the job. The thought of other black brothers stabbing Jon to death made his body clench in anger, but then… he pondered the rumours from Castle Black as he mechanically moved turnips from one spot to another, making a mark on a post after each ten he counted. 

He felt something cold at his throat and, assuming it was a droplet of water, swiped at it. His hand hit cold, unyielding steel and Grenn froze. Slowly Grenn’s gaze dropped to the razor-thin blade at his throat, and then followed that blade all the way up to the sword hilt. Then the hand that held that hilt. Then the face of the person holding that whip-thin blade. 

_I’ve died of the cold and gone to the seventh heaven._

Whoever she was, her face was beautiful. So much so, that Grenn momentarily forgot that with a flick of her wrist she could, indeed, send him to the seventh heaven. 

She was clearly a she; unfathomable as it was that there was a woman inside Eastwatch. Her face was long but feminine. She was young, possibly not quite a woman grown yet, and she possessed the wild beauty of a northern woman. She had large grey eyes, a small nose, high cheekbones, a full, ripe mouth and lush, dark hair that framed her face.   

“And what is your name, brother?” She asked in a low voice that curled around Grenn like smokeweed, smooth as silk.

Grenn was quite certain he’d never had a sister who looked like this. 

The blade pushed against his skin, just a fraction. 

“Grenn.” He gasped out. 

“Lie to me Grenn, and I’ll gut you like a river trout. Do you understand?” Her voice was clear and cultured. _High born._

“Yes, m’lady.” He replied. 

“Don’t doubt I can do it, Grenn. My brother Jon taught me to gut a fish, and I was a quick student. Perhaps you knew my brother Jon. Your late Lord Commander. Jon Snow.” 

“Huh?” It was all Grenn could manage by way of a response. 

There was a sudden sting at his throat and Grenn went utterly still. He watched her carefully. Grenn might not be clever, but the Watch had honed his instincts quite a bit. Her eyes, beautiful as they were, seemed hard and cold. Her face showed not a single vestige of emotion.

“It’s true isn’t it?” She asked. “He was killed by his own men?”

“Well, yes, so I’ve heard m’lady, but….”

“Who?” Her voice dropped to a sharp rasp of fury; an eerie contrast to her emotionless face.

“Who what? Wait….your brother? But, I mean, are you saying…” 

“Who killed him?” Her voice was calm and controlled now; as icy as her face. Despite the fact that this beautiful young woman barely came up to his shoulder and was only half his width, Grenn felt that he was on very dangerous ground.  

“Well, Bowen Marsh and a couple of others, if I’ve heard it right, m’lady.”

“Bowen Marsh?” A single, elegant eyebrow was raised. 

“The First Steward. He’s running the Watch now, m’lady. Until a new Lord Commander can be chosen.”

She was motionless, but Grenn had an impression of tightly controlled fury, like that caged bear he’d once seen at his town fair.

“A coup? Is that how he has gone unpunished for killing his own Commander?”

“A what? Umm….m’lady. Lady Stark, is it? I, I….could be wrong, ‘cause I don’t know the first thing about it, but mayhaps Marsh is still alive because Lord Snow is too.”

“What?” 

“Alive, m’lady. Rumour has it Lord Snow is alive.”

Grenn didn’t know how it happened. One second he was standing with his back against the wall, the next he was flat on his back, lying on the floor. He hadn’t even blinked. How….what…how had that happened? 

She was standing over him and now her eyes burned with unconcealed rage. That damn sword was at his throat again. 

“I warned you not to lie to me!”

“I’m not! I swear! I’m not!” Grenn babbled. “I’m just telling you what I’ve heard. Jon….Lord Snow…he was my friend. I don’t want him dead. They say he’s alive.”

“Who says?”

“The brothers who’ve travelled between here and Castle Black in the weeks since he left.”

She stood over him, her eyes scanning his face. Grenn finally decided he’s had enough of having a sword at his throat. He swept his arm around suddenly in a wide arc, intending to take her feet out from under her.

He moved fast but she moved faster. She jumped his arm, lightening quick, and slammed the flat of her sword against his forehead. Grenn saw stars, but he still sensed her kneeling above and behind him as she put the sword to his throat again. 

“Try that again and I truly will gut you. Now answer me….did Jon Snow die or is he alive?”

Grenn swallowed and related the rumours to her as best he could while his head was pounding. He had to admit, when you spoke to rumours out loud, they sounded ridiculous. No-one came back from the dead, excepts for wights, but all the rumours said Jon had been whole and still human when he stepped from the pyre.  

When he finished talking she was silent a moment. 

“You said he left Castle Black?” She queried. 

“Yes m’lady. According to the rumours he sent Tormund Giantsbane north to Hardhome, to try to rescue some wildlings who’ve got trapped there, and they reckon Lord Snow has taken troops of soldiers and wildlings south to Winterfell, to fight Bolton.”

“Bolton? Lord Bolton?”

Grenn told her what little he had heard of the situation at Winterfell. 

“They say Ramsay Bolton married Arya Stark a good few moons back.” Grenn finished. “That’s you, isn’t it m’lady?”

She regarded him without expression or comment. Grenn went on.

“Jon…Lord Snow. He was never a big talker, but when he did talk it was usually about his father, or sometimes his brother Robb, but most often he talked about his sister Arya. He said she had the northern look, like he did. He made us laugh more than once, telling of things little Lady Arya had done.”

For the first time the young woman’s cool face seemed to show a little warmth. A softening around her eyes and mouth. 

“What sort of tales did he tell of her?” She asked. 

Grenn scanned his memory frantically, sensing that here was a chance to gain her good graces. 

“Ummm…..ummm….oh! There was the time she put a handful of salt in the meal of Lord Stark’s ward, because of something he’d said.”

Grenn watched as the young woman’s face lit up from within. He searched for another remembered story. 

“Oh, and the time some lordling visited with his pet ferret and Lady Arya got her hands on it and shoved it down her sister’s dress.”

Amazingly, she smiled at this. 

“Get up.” She told him.

Grenn did as he was told. He eyed her warily and she stepped away from him. She regarded him calmly before informing him, “I don’t know who has been married off to Bolton’s son, but it was not Arya Stark. I am Arya Stark, but I have never been married.”

“Yes m’lady.” 

“If you still consider Jon Snow your friend, you will tell no-one that I was here.” She informed him.

_As if I’ve got a burning desire to tell my brothers that I was trounced by a girl. As if they’d believe there was a girl here at Eastwatch._

“I swear, m’lady. No-one will hear it from me.” 

She stepped towards the doorway, without turning her back on him.

“M’lady?” He called to her. 

She stopped and raised a questioning eyebrow. Grenn thought there was more life in her eyes now.

“If Jon is alive, and you find him, will you tell him I’m glad he’s still alive? My friend Pyp would say the same too, if he could.”

She nodded, then she was gone.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to the people who have left kudos and comments so far. It's been much appreciated.


	9. The Blackfish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi All. Sorry for the long wait! I've been moving house and have also had a bit of a block on how to continue one or two characters' stories. These next two chapters are not from the perspective of major characters, but they keep the story moving until I get the major characters sorted out.

**Ser Brynden**

Ser Brynden Tully gratefully dismounted his horse. They had been riding steadily north for the past three weeks, since their escape from Riverrun. Lady Jane seemed exhausted at the end of each day but Ser Brynden had to admire the fact that she did not complain once about the hardships.

Today they had chanced upon a ramshackle looking inn and Ser Brynden decided to risk a look inside, in the hopes that Lady Stark could sleep under a roof for once. After instructing Lady Jane to remain mounted until he returned, and to flee at the first sign of danger, he drew his sword and went inside.

Ser Brynden searched the inn but found no signs that it was currently inhabited. He proceeded to the stables and it was the same there.

Ser Brynden believed it would be tantamount to asking to have their throats cut, if they slept in the inn. Just because the inn was empty now, that did not mean it would remain so, come nightfall. Despite the unused feel to the place, the inn might be a temporary home to a local group of bandits. There was no-one to protect Lady Jane but him. He could not risk it.

Instead he led the lady to the stable and there he formed a bed for her from the mounds of hay. Brynden noted that her eyelids fluttered heavily and there were dark circles under her eyes; with any luck she would sleep deeply. Ser Brynden covered her well with more hay, both for heat and to hide her from sight, before taking a seat that gave him a clear view out the stable door.  

Once again, as he had for the past three weeks, he pondered whether he was doing the right thing. King Robb had instructed that, in the event of his death, the northern lords should accept his legitimization of his bastard brother, Jon Snow, and they should make him their new the King of the North. However, Catelyn had always spoken poorly of Jon Snow. Further, he recalled the conversation he’d had with Jaime Lannister, when he had learned that Jon Snow had been made Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.

If Jon Snow was in the pocket of the Lannisters, Ser Brynden would be leading Lady Jane to her death, if he took her to the man.

On the other hand, King Robb had always spoken with warmth and great respect for his bastard brother. _But King Robb misjudged the Freys,_ Ser Brynden reminded himself, _and bastards are notoriously treacherous._

Not only that, but the northern and riverland lords and ladies who had supported King Robb were now scattered to the winds.

Ser Brynden allowed his gaze to flicker briefly to the hay covering Lady Jane.

_Why would a legitimized bastard protect his dead brother’s wife, who may be pregnant with his dead brother’s unborn child? Such a child would be a threat to his power. Lady Jane would be no safer with Jon Snow than she would in the hands of the Lannisters._

Ser Brynden also considered the fact that, as a man of the Night’s Watch, there was probably scant that Jon Snow could do to aid the lady. No, despite King Robb’s praise of his brother, Ser Brynden was decided; he would take Lady Stark to a house with old ties of loyalty to House Stark. The Glovers, or the Mormonts, for example. They too had been present when King Robb had signed the documents legitimizing Jon Snow and naming him his heir, so Brynden would need to talk to them anyway regarding plans for the future. 

Brynden sighed. His brother was dead, his nephew was a captive of the Lannisters, his niece was dead and so too, it appeared, were all her Stark children. The north and the riverlands had been laid to waste by war. And now winter was here.

Not for the first time since King Robb’s death, Ser Brynden felt very old.   


	10. Maege

**Lady Mormont**

Maege Mormont looked out over the prow of the boat at the swampy scrub ahead and rubbed her aching elbow.  It was barely winter but the cold was seeping into her bones far quicker than it had in previous winters. Maege was feeling her age. When they had made port at Seaguard, weeks ago, they had received word of King Robb’s death during the Red Wedding.

The maester who delivered the news had advised Lady Mormont that it was highly likely that her daughter, Dacey, had also been killed and the news had hit her very hard. Dacey had been intelligent, beautiful, strong, a fierce warrior but ladylike too. As the eldest of Maege’s daughters she had taken on responsibility early and matured young. Maege could not think of her without wanting to weep, so for now she refused to think of her.

The other piece of news the maester had imparted was the death of her beloved brother, Jeor, and the selection of Eddard Stark’s bastard son, Jon Snow, as the new Lord Commander. Jon Snow, who was named in King Robb’s last written declaration as Jon Stark, King Robb’s heir as King of the North, in the absence of any other heir. Snow’s appointment as Lord Commander had occurred many months ago, as had King Robb’s death, but since Maege and her companions had been constantly on the move, this was the first they had heard of it.

After hearing all this news, Maege, Galbert Glover and Jason Mallister had spent two days in Seaguard, debating their next move. They had argued over whether Jon’s appointment as Lord Commander made it more or less likely that he would leave the Watch to claim Robb’s title. Galbert suggested it less likely than ever, since Jon now held a position of responsibility which he would be unlikely to abandon lightly. Jason argued it more likely, since Jon now held a position of power and therefore might be able to leave the Watch without incurring backlash.

The information they had at hand suggested King Robb’s other bannermen had scattered, but they had no idea where those bannermen had gone and whether other alliances or allegiances had been formed. In truth, they had no idea whether a King in the North would still have sufficient support from the northern and riverland lords; particularly a king who would be a legitimized bastard.

In the end, Maege, Galbert and Jason had agreed that, until they knew more, they should fulfill King Robb’s last orders to them and continue on to find Greywater Watch, and the crannogmen, if they could.

The voyage up the Neck had been perilous, and both ships had their share of close calls near the reefs and rocky shorelines, however they had made it.

 _Or at least we’ve made it this far,_ Maege thought, as she looked out at the swamp lands. Greywater Watch was said to constantly move. Even now, they had no idea exactly how close they might be to the castle, which none aboard the two ships had ever seen with their own eyes. Greywater, and the crannogmen who inhabited this wild stretch of land, were legendary for causing the deaths of unwary, overconfident travelers. It was said that no-one went into the Greywater, and came out the other side, unless the crannogmen allowed it.

Galbert Glover came and stood beside her at the prow, a rolled and sealed parchment in his hand. Maege recognized the seal and knew it for what it was; King Robb’s declaration.

Galbert slapped the parchment against his hand now.

“You know” he commented, “even if we find the castle, there’s no guarantee these bog-men will show themselves and let us in. We’re more like to end up covered in poisoned darts.”

Maege Mormont had a mental image of herself stuck with hundreds of poisoned darts, curled up like some sort of human porcupine. She shook it off.

“We must try, nevertheless.” She replied.

Ten minutes later Maege Mormont, Jason Mallister and Galbert Glover were each seated in a small, shallow rowing boat, with two oarsmen apiece. Each rowing boat bore two banners aloft; the one of the lord or lady’s house, and the other the direwolf banner of the Starks. The boats slid away from the longships, into the murky swamps.

They had been rowing for three hours and, although no-one spoke the words aloud, Maege suspected they were hopelessly lost. Sound seemed to travel differently here; each noise echoed across the water and rebounded in strange ways. The water-dwelling trees swayed where there was no wind and creaked in a manner that seemed ominous. The swamp was misty and it was impossible to see more than fifty meters ahead. The entire place was forbidding and for a good part of the past three hours Maege had experienced a strong feeling that they were being watched.

Her feeling proved to be well-founded a few minutes later as the sound of bow-strings being drawn taut echoed across the water. As the mists eased around the three rowing boats, Maege saw that they had rowed into a small lake and on all sides of the lake there were short people, dressed in greens and browns, with arrows pointed at the boats.

“So much for the warm welcome of the bog-men.” Glover murmured. Maege hissed at him to be quiet. She spoke out in a loud yet low voice; trying to sound as unthreatening as possible.

“We have come to speak to Lord Reed, on behalf of King Robb Stark. My name is Lady Maege Mormont, and my companions are….”

She was interrupted by a crannogman to her left.

“We need no introductions, Lady Mormont,” spoke the diminutive man. “Lord Reed has been expecting you. Please, dock you boats here and follow me.”

Maege was disturbed by this, but she, Mallister and Glover instructed their oarsmen to do as they were asked. Once ashore, they followed the crannogman down a barely visible pathway, brushing aside vines and creepers as they walked.

After a good half an hour, the vegetation fell away before them, to reveal and massive clearing which was dominated by a small castle. Its walls were solid stone, and its moat was wide. It looked surprisingly like most other castles Maege had seen, only on a smaller scale.

They were ushered over the drawbridge, through a courtyard and into a long hall. Torches burned in wall sconces down the length of the hall and Maege could see that vines crawled up all the walls, reinforcing the impression that the wild environment ruled in Greywater.

At the end of the hall sat a small man. He was dressed in shades of green and brown, his hair was a rapidly graying brown and his eyes were a vibrant, disconcerting shade of green. He watched them approach and, meeting his eyes, Maege was unnerved. While this crannogman was by no means an ancient, his eyes spoke of mysteries and secrets.

As the three lords neared him, the crannogman rose from his seat and bowed to them.

“My lords, my lady. I am Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch. Welcome.”

Maege, Jason and Galbert murmured introductions of their own and thanks for his welcome. Maege should have been reassured to see that bread, salt and wine were being placed before them, as it indicate that guest rights were invoked and safety was assured. However since her king and her daughter had been murdered at a wedding feast, Maege no longer felt reassured by the gesture.   

Lord Reed indicated for them to be seated and Maege sat, trying to scan her surrounding discreetly as she did so. The crannogman regarded them silently as they helped themselves to bread and wine. Uncomfortable with the silence, Maege filled it by addressing Reed.

“My lord, no doubt you are wondering why we are here.”

Incandescent green eyes met her own, and a small, sad smile lifted the corner of Lord Reed’s mouth.

“Not at all, Lady Mormont.” He replied. “I am a greenseer. The ability runs down the Reed family line. You have heard of greenseers, yes?”

Maege nodded. She had indeed and she now realized why his eyes seemed so old and full of secrets.

“I have been watching and waiting.” Lord Reed continued. “I have seen the wars throughout Westeros, as autumn passed. I have seen the rise and fall of the lions. I have also seen the rise of the Young Wolf and his fall. I have seen the direwolves broken and scattered. I have seen the three heads of the dragon and I have seen the enemy. Now the long winter is here. The time has come for ice and fire to collide and for all men to fight for survival.”

As Lord Reed finished this extraordinary speech, Maege shot a look at Mallister and Glover. They returned her glances and she could see their thoughts ran along similar tracks to hers. _Greenseer or not, this man is not in his right mind. He speaks of dragons, as though they are not extinct.  
_

Lord Glover cleared his throat and spoke up. “We were ordered to approach you, Lord Reed, to ask that you declare your fealty and support for King Robb, the King in the North.”

“Yet King Robb is now dead, and his kingdom with it,” replied Howland Reed mildly. “Indeed, the word that reaches us here in Greywater is that most of Westeros believes that House Stark is all dead and buried.”

“You are correct, Lord Reed.” Galbert replied. “From what we know, there is only one person with Stark blood running through his veins who still lives.”

“You are referring to Jon Snow?” Reed asked.

“His name is not Jon Snow, my lord.” Maege countered. “We hold a written declaration which legitimizes Jon Snow as Jon Stark, and names him King in the North, if King Robb died without an heir. We do not know if Lady Jane Stark is pregnant with an heir, but even if she is, someone will need to bear the title of King in the North until any babe prince comes of age. King Robb chose his brother Jon to continue his reign. He is heir to the north and the riverlands.”

“You are right and you are wrong, Lady Mormont” said Lord Reed, as his green eyes captured hers again.

“How so, my lord?” she asked.

“You are correct in saying that the man who has been known as Jon Snow is legitimate and that his name is not, truly, Jon Snow. However he is heir to much more than just the riverlands and the north.”

Maege, Jason and Galbert shared confused looks.

“You are making no sense, Lord Reed.” Jason Mallister argued. “How can he be heir to more than the lands and houses that declared for King Robb?”

Howland Reed turned his ancient, green eyes upon them.

“I will explain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK - so, sorry for the lack of excitement in those two chapters, however I promise my next post will include at least one action packed chapter. Namely - Arya arrives at Castle Black around the same time that the White Walkers do.


	11. Stannis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi All. So, sorry it has been a while since a major character update, but I was struggling to figure out how to pull together Stannis and Jon's stories, and how to do the battle for Winterfell. Military writing is not my thing, so please don't be disappointed with the lack of detail in the battles. These three chapters are fairly bulky but I wanted to publish them together, because they all take place in the same short timespan.
> 
> Enjoy!

Stannis had spent the past two weeks here in this gods-forsaken village, three days west of Winterfell, and he was ready to leave it. Delaying and continuing to sit here to await better conditions would only result in more men dying of the freezing temperatures. He had spent the past two weeks conferring with his commanders and preparing to battle the Boltons for Winterfell. Stannis knew that no matter how much more time he spent planning, there was nothing more he could do now to predict how the battle might go; he had prepared as best he could for all contingencies.

Stannis sat now considering the paltry meal in front of him. Tycho Nestoris sat across from him, picking at the food on his own plate. Stannis had intended to send the Braavosi banker back to the Wall, to avoid the risk of him getting hurt or killed in the fighting, however Nestoris was insisting that he accompany Stannis’ armies to Winterfell, to witness the outcome of the battle. As Nestoris was a foreigner, who was controlling Stannis’ purse strings, Stannis felt it would be unwise to force the banker to his will.

An angry cry came from another building. Stannis recognised it as the voice of Arnolf Karstark, the traitorous wretch. When Nestoris had arrived from the Wall he had brought with him Jon Snow’s message that Arnolf planned treachery. When confronted with Alys Karstark’s evidence against him, Arnolf had paled, hesitated, and then spat in Stannis’ face and yelled obscenities. Arnolf and his rotten offspring were now shackled in an outbuilding, awaiting their sentence. Stannis was inclined towards death by fire; after all, it was important to set a precedence for planned regicide.

Next to Stannis sat Lady Arya Stark, who had been rescued by scouts two weeks ago, as had her companion, that wretch Theon Greyjoy. If Stannis were frank, Arya Stark was not what he expected. Despite knowing that Ramsay Bolton had abused the girl, he had expected she would still have at least a little pride and poise; however the girl was timid in the extreme and she did not display the polish or strength he would have expected of a lady of Winterfell.

As Stannis watched the girl she raised her head and her eyes met his momentarily, before she ducked her head and looked down at her plate again. She seemed embarrassed or ashamed. Stannis did not have the energy or inclination to try to figure her out; he would send her back to the Wall and his debt to Jon Snow would be paid.

Ser Justin approached the table.

“Your Grace, your commanders await you in the round hall.”

Stannis nodded and forced himself to relax his tense shoulder. Tomorrow they would march on Winterfell and in four days time, the Red God willing, he would force Ramsay Bolton to bend the knee.

* * *

Four days later Stannis sat ahorse, his armies arrayed behind him, on a hill overlooking Winterfell.  One or two of the towers appeared to be damaged, but otherwise the castle looked solid and formidable. Stannis knew it would be no small feat to gain entrance. The outer and inner walls were high and thickly manned by soldiers.

There was no sign of Roose Bolton or his bannermen so Stannis hoped they were still travelling to reach Winterfell. With any luck, Roose and his men would arrive when it was too late to help his upstart bastard son.

Stannis looked to either side of his horse. A long line of troops had formed up on the hillside behind him and his commanders were looking at him expectantly. The red stag within its flaming heart leapt on a hundred banners as they snapped in the wind. Stannis shouted a command and the line started forward.

It appeared Ramsay had no trebuchets, for Stannis’ army passed within the range of a trebuchet without being fired upon. However it was not long before the arrows started raining down upon them. Stannis’ men did as they had been ordered and kept their shields high above them.

Before long, they reached the outer wall and Stannis watched as their battering ram made its first attempt on the North Gate. The ram hit its mark with a solid thump but as the ram was pulled away, Stannis could see no sign of damage on the gate.

_This is going to be a long siege._

 

* * *

 

 

Half an hour later and the North Gate still showed little sign of damage. Stannis’ troops, however, were another thing. Between arrows and hot oil, he was slowly losing men. Ramsay had not sent his own men outside the castle; it seemed he was content to sit within Winterfell and wait.

Ser Adam suddenly yelled a warning and Stannis turned in his saddle and looked to the hills. Huge armies poured down the hills to the south and east; thousands of men. Despite the distance, Stannis recognised the banner of the flayed man. Roose Bolton had come. However, far more profuse were the twin tower banners; hundreds upon hundreds of them.

_May the Red God burn all Freys to a crisp._

As the enemy force raced down the hillside, Stannis realised that his own armies were trapped; pinned between Ramsay’s soldiers upon the walls of Winterfell and his father’s armies outside. _Like a piece of metal between a hammer and an anvil, they will pound us to death. There are far too many of them; far more than I estimated. We will not be able to continue our assault on Ramsay’s forces while trying to protect our rear from this lot._

Stannis had experienced bitter defeat on the Blackwater. He retreated that time, but he had no intention of retreating again now. If he retreated now, his bid for the Iron Throne would be all but dead.

Stannis ground his teeth and shouted a command to his bannermen. _I will be king or I will die fighting for the Iron Throne. It is mine._


	12. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK kiddies. Just a warning. I am going to up the rating on this fic, because this chapter introduces some ugly words and themes, as we come face to face with Ramsay Snow/Bolton. You can have no idea how long I spent pouring over a map of Winterfell to try to make this chapter work. Hope it makes some sense. If not - check out a Winterfell map online yourself and see if that helps at all. 
> 
> This is a LOOONG chapter. Hope you don't get bored.

It had been a long few weeks, travelling south towards Winterfell. The weather and ground conditions had made progress painfully slow, and there had been deaths, as some of the soldiers had succumbed to the freezing temperatures. Most of those had died in their sleep. The wildlings fared far better.

Jon was surprised by how many had chosen to travel with him; all of the wildlings who had not gone with Tormund to Hardhome had accompanied him, including Val. Wun Wun had also come south with him; after killing Ser Patrek, the giant was no longer welcome or safe at Castle Black.

The weather made it almost impossible to talk during the day, as they were riding. However when they camped, Melisandre had invariably come to his tent each night to talk to him. She kept calling him, “my liege”, and had also started calling him “my prince”. When Jon, irritated by these titles, had informed her that he was no king, no prince nor even a lord now, she had disagreed. She had told him everything she knew of the prophecies of the Azor Ahai reborn, the Prince Who Was Promised. She insisted the prophecies were about him.

Jon wished she hadn’t trailed after him when he left the Wall.

“I’m the Bastard of Winterfell, the Black Bastard of the Wall.” He informed her tersely. “Stop trying to turn me into something I’m not. You will not be able to convince anyone, particularly me, that Lord Eddard Stark’s bastard is a prince, just because the gods may have given me a burning sword.”

She simply eyed him and replied. “The gods kept you well hidden, all these years, while those scheming for the Iron Throne tore each other to pieces. Now I realize, they kept you hidden so you would be as safe as possible, while the game of thrones played out. So you could learn to be a leader while concentrating on the real enemy.” She sighed. “I have been so blind.”

Jon had looked up from his map at that point.

“The Wall is hardly a safe place and you are making no sense, priestess. How can you possibly believe that I fit within any definition of a prince?”

She countered his question with one of her own. “Who is your mother?”

Jon was taken aback. “I do not know.” He admitted stiffly. “Lord Stark never saw fit to tell me.”

“And you do not think that odd?” She asked.

“Not if she was a whore or a camp follower, no.” He replied. “I do not think it odd at all. He wanted to protect me from the truth about my mother. Most likely she didn’t have the desire or means to raise me, so my father did what only one lord in a thousand would do, and he raised me himself.”

Melisandre was silent a moment; her eyes on her hands.

“I have always heard that Lord Stark was a highly honourable man.” Her red eyes seemed to glow as she looked up at him. “Fathering a bastard does not seem to fit the character of such a man.”

As with most of his discussions with Melisandre, Jon was uncomfortable. “Even the most honourable of men make mistakes.” He retorted.

“This is true.”

“Have you finished with your questions for one night, priestess? I would like to get some sleep.”

She nodded and stood. At the tent flap she turned.

“One last question, my prince.” Jon’s jaw tightened at that title again, but he waited. “They say you look like Lord Eddard. Your hair, your eyes. How many others bore the look of the Starks, around the time you were born?”

Jon was not sure what this question was leading towards and he was not sure he wanted to know.

“I am told that my grandfather Rickard did.” Jon responded. “As did my uncles Brandon and Benjen, and my aunt Lyanna, from what I have heard. Beyond that…some of the Karstarks bear similar features. Why do you ask?”

She smiled innocently. “No reason, my prince.”

She left, and Jon was left with some very unsettling thoughts.

Since that night, Melisandre had asked for more details on the Stark family history, and Jon had supplied her with answers where he could, and until his patience ran out. He also spent part of the nights testing Longclaw. Melisandre had the infuriating habit of referring to his sword as ‘Lightbringer’. Jon found this embarrassing and ridiculous, and he had insisted she not use that name for his sword, however she kept doing it. Melisandre, it seemed, was a law unto herself.

Every time he touched the sword it started to glow, as though it had been placed in a forge. Further, Jon had discovered that the higher his emotions were running when he touched it, the faster it went from glowing to burning. It seemed to not matter whether the emotion was good or bad; happiness, anger or bone-deep sadness, all fuelled the sword into flames of bright yellow, orange and red.

In quiet moments as he rode during the day, or lay beneath his furs at night, Jon thought about the prophecies. He would not accept that they were about him. The burning sword, Ser Patrek’s bloodied banner, these were just coincidences. Only a month ago Melisandre was convinced the prophecies referred to Stannis. She must be mistaken now.

_There is no possible way that the gods would be so foolish as to put the survival of the realm, the survival of the world, in my hands. Ygritte once told me that I knew nothing, and she was right…Every lad wants to believe he is destined for great things. Then we grow up, learn the weight of reality and responsibility, and try to make the best of what life hands us._

_It cannot be me._

* * *

A week later Jon and his followers arrived at the northernmost hill overlooking Winterfell. The sounds of the battle had preceded the sight of it, but that did not make the sight any less impressive.

Jon could see that Stannis’ troops were wedged against the outer walls of Winterfell. Armies bearing Bolton and Frey banners assaulted Stannis’ troops from behind and Bolton’s men inside the walls were raining down arrows and burning oil onto those below. Jon shook his head, amazed Stannis’ men had lasted any length of time against the dual assault. They would not last much longer without aid.

They also would not gain entry to Winterfell by continuing to ram its gates. Jon had spent many hours listening to his father and Ser Rodrick expounding the strengths of Winterfell’s defenses. Jon knew how thick and reinforced those gates were; in a battle like this there was little chance the gates would give way before Stannis’ troops did.

Jon looked at his childhood home now with fresh eyes. They needed another way in. He had been informed that Theon had taken Winterfell with grappling hooks and a sneak attack when it was vulnerable. Jon suspected he needed to think along similar lines now, although a sneak attack would be exceptionally difficult this time.

Jon turned and considered his resources. One giant (large, not particularly bright, but all muscle), a couple of thousand wildlings (not trained for pitched warfare, but generally hardy and resourceful), several hundred of Stannis’ bannermen (trained for battle but not particularly imaginative) and one red priestess (who could create illusions and burn creatures alive with the power of her mind).

A plan began to form in Jon’s mind. He called Melisandre to him.

“Can you create an illusion and set a fire in that turret?” Jon pointed to the turret east of the North Gate, the turret that sat parallel to the inner wall’s Broken Tower. “I need for myself and at least a dozen wildlings to be able to scale the wall and get into that turret without interference. No arrows being shot at us, no hot oil being pitched down at us.”

Melisandre considered the turret. “I need to see an object to set fire to it.” She informed him. “I can set fire to the soldiers on either side of the turret, and any who poke their heads above the walls. And I can create an illusion of fire around the turret. It will not last for more than a few minutes though. The work you are asking me to do takes a heavy toll.”

Jon nodded his acceptance.

He called Ser Edric Estermont to him. Ser Edric was one of Stannis’ bannermen who had remained at Castle Black when Stannis marched south. Over the preceding weeks, Jon had spoken to all of Stannis’ bannermen who had chosen to accompany him south to Winterfell, trying to get to know them a little as they journeyed. Ser Edric had impressed him the most as a man of intelligence and common sense.

Jon instructed Edric to take the bulk of the men and women, along with Wun Wun, and attack the Bolton and Frey forces from the rear. Meanwhile Jon took the remaining men and women, wildlings all of them, and divided them into two groups. One group he instructed to attack the East Gate, drawing Ramsay’s men away from the ramparts near the Broken Tower.

The other group, which included Val, was to accompany Jon. Jon told them of his plan. Val shook her head with a wry smile on her face, but she said nothing, other than, “your fate is my fate for now, Jon Snow. I am your to command.”  

When Jon had outlined his plan, he knelt and put his hands on either side of Ghost’s furry face. “We separate for a time now, my friend. You cannot scale walls. Stay alive.”

Ghost, who had travelled silently beside him these past weeks, regarded Jon for a long moment before licking his face. Jon took that for acceptance.

With a nod of farewell to Melisandre, Jon and his wildlings raced their horses down the slope to the outer turret that faced the Broken Tower. It was once the tallest watchtower in Winterfell, but many years ago the top third had collapsed inward, and it had not been rebuilt. They kept their shields up as they galloped down the hill, and Jon heard arrows thwack into more than one shield. A horse and rider went down on his left.

When they reached the wall under the turret they pulled out the grappling hooks that had been brought with them on the journey south. There were only two, but it was enough. Jon waved to Melisandre and nodded to Togan and Rory, the wildlings who held the hooks. Togan and Rory immediately began swinging the hooks, to gain momentum, before they launched them at the top of the wall, on either side of the turret. Jon heard screams from above, and saw bright flames on either side of the turret.

The hooks firmly lodged, Jon took the rope on the left and started climbing, his legs braced against the wall. Val was doing the same on the right. He forced himself to move fast, aware that many wildings had to follow him up this rope, and Melisandre’s work would not last long.

He kept his gaze upwards as he climbed. At one point he spotted a man, leaning over the crenellations and looking down at him. As Jon watched, the man burst into flames and fell backwards, screaming. It seemed like forever, but eventually Jon reached the top of the wall and hauled himself over the crenellations, his eyes immediately seeking out enemies. A dozen soldiers stood two dozen paces away, kept at a distance by the four bodies burning bright and hot in front of Jon. Behind Jon was the turret door. The door appeared to be aflame, but when Jon touched it, it was cool. _An illusion._

As Jon put his back to the door he saw that the soldiers before him were starting to react. Jon drew his bow off his back and quickly nocked an arrow from his quiver and pulled it to his ear, crouching behind the burning bodies as he let the arrow fly. The arrow took out a soldier.

His second arrow took out another soldier, and he felt a tiny rush of air as an arrow sped past his right cheek, narrowly missing him. He nocked, drew and released a third arrow and suddenly a wildling was crouched beside him, nocking an arrow to his own bow.

The wildlings with bows and arrows were first over the wall, and they took up spots around Jon, loosing arrow after arrow with deadly accuracy. A wildling slightly forward of Jon went down with an arrow through his chest; Jon kept nocking, drawing and loosing.

As the remaining wildlings pulled themselves over the wall, drawing swords and spears as they did so, the remaining Bolton soldiers seemed to realise they had become outnumbered and they started retreating. Jon dispatched five of the wildlings to follow them, while the others remained with Jon.

The turret door opened easily. Two enemy soldiers rushed them, but were quickly dispatched with arrows. The wildlings entered before Jon, seemingly forming an honour guard, as they proceeded inside the turret, bows drawn as they looked for enemies. A soldier popped his head up the stairwell, and received an arrow in the eye. Jon closed the stairwell hatch and bolted it.

At that moment, Val opened the door on the other side of the turret. She had seven wildlings with her. She nodded to Jon and spoke. “I’ve half a dozen back out there, holding them off, but there are far too many of them for us to try to take the gate house. It would be sure death for all of us.”

Jon nodded. He had expected as much. He crossed to the turret’s inner window, which he opened. On the other side of the moat was the inner wall and there, opposite him, was the Broken Tower. The top of the tower was a mass of rubble, well below the top of the outer turret. Luckily, as Jon remembered, the solid wooden beams of the Broken Tower were still visible through the rubble, and still looked solid.

“Marron.” Jon called. A large wildling came to the window, bearing the large crossbow Jon had commandeered, whilst upon the hilltop overlooking Winterfell. Jon pointed to the wooden beams, below and opposite them.

“We have only two ropes, Marron. Take your shot carefully.”

Marron nodded as he finished tightly knotting the rope to the base of an arrow. Marron fitted the arrow in the crossbow, took aim and fired. The arrow sped across the moat, trailing rope behind it, and hit a wooden beam with a solid ‘thunk’.

Three wildlings took the end of the rope, lashed it around the turret’s centre pole and braced themselves.  Grateful for the gloves he was wearing, Jon grabbed hold of the rope, hauled himself out the window, and wrapped his ankles around the rope. He quickly hauled himself down the rope and in no time at all he was pulling himself over the rubble of the Broken Tower. He dropped to his feet, pulled his bow free again and looked back. Three wildlings were shimmying down the rope, while on the ramparts on either side of the turret, the remaining wildlings were holding the Bolton soldiers at bay.

In short order, more than a dozen wildlings stood surrounding Jon. Adjoining the Broken Tower was the First Keep. Like the Broken Tower it had not been in use at all during Jon’s boyhood. From the top of the Broken Tower, Jon and the wildlings were able to lower themselves via rope onto the roof of the First Keep.

Arrow nocked and weapons drawn, they quickly crossed the roof of the First Keep, and at the far side were able to drop onto the roof of the guards hall. As they ran its length, Jon heard several cries of warning, saw a number of soldiers pointing at them and even had a few arrows whizz past him, but for the most part it seemed the soldiers were on the back foot, taken by surprise by the enemy group suddenly inside the walls.

Jon was struck by a sudden memory of Bran racing this length, for fun, one cold and blustery day. Robb had laughed, Jon had called a warning that Bran would catch it from his lord father and lady mother, if they found out, and Arya had urged Bran on loudly.

When Jon and the wildlings reached the end of the guards hall, they hoisted themselves up onto the roof of the armoury. Jon stopped for a second and considered the two options he had planned for in his mind. They could now race the wall towards the North Gate, aiming to get inside the gate house and force the gate open, or they could make for wherever the lords and ladies were holed up and take hostages to bargain a surrender out of Bolton. Jon looked out across the rooftops towards the North Gate. Soldiers were swarming near the gate and in the courtyard on either side of the wall running to the gate. They would have no chance there.

Jon turned in the other direction. He would have expected the lords to be holed up in the Great Hall, only he could see now that the roof of the hall was caved in. In this weather, they wouldn’t be there. Jon’s next best guess was the Great Keep. This group would make for that, and see if they could find an important lord or two there; hopefully Ramsay himself.

Jon shouted a command to the wildlings and they climbed down onto the bridge that ran between the armory and the Great Keep. They raced the length of the bridge. There were guards posted at the entrance to the Keep, but Val and several of her wildlings made short work of them with bow and arrow, well before Jon reached the doorway.

Fresh arrows were nocked. Jon nodded to Val and she opened the door onto the Keep’s upper floor. The room was filled with long tables, which were mainly empty. A few soldiers stood at the Keeps other entrances, and they jerked in shock as Jon and the wildlings stepped into the room. None of the soldiers had bows, Jon noted. There was one table at the head of the room, the high table, and half a dozen richly dressed men and women sat there.

A man was seated at the middle of the high table. He was big-boned and ugly, with pale eyes, fleshy lips and blotchy skin. This, Jon realized, must be Ramsay. Of the other lords and ladies seated at the table, Jon recognized only one; Wyman Manderly, the Lord of White Harbour, who had visited Winterfell when Jon was a boy. Lord Wyman was as large as ever, although he appeared pale and ill.

Ramsay stood. “And who are you?” He asked.

“Jon Snow.” Jon replied and, despite knowing the aim of this mission was to open Winterfell to Stannis, Jon heard himself ask “where is my sister, Arya Stark?”

Ramsay laughed. It was a cruel, false laugh.

“Well, well, well. My lords and ladies. We are graced by the former Bastard of Winterfell, now the Black Bastard of the Wall…I’m impressed Lord Snow. To be honest, I didn’t think you would come. How did you get in?”

Jon slowly walked forward; the ring of wildlings surrounding him kept their bows drawn and aimed at the few soldiers scattered throughout the room.

“I am Lord Snow no longer. I am no longer a man of the Nights Watch. I am free now to do as I please, and it would please me greatly to kill you Ramsay Snow.”

Ramsay’s face twisted into something even uglier.

“I am a Snow no longer, bastard!” He yelled. “I am a leal servant to the Iron Throne and I was legitimized because of it. Whereas you…you, will always be a bastard. You will carry the name Snow until the day you die.”

Jon stopped walking and shrugged. “I did die, at the Wall several weeks ago, but the gods spat me back out for some reason. As for my name, since being made Lord Commander I have made my peace with being a bastard. My name does not define me. It never has. If you think that being named a Bolton will wipe the ugliness off your soul Ramsay, you should think again. The gods see you for what you truly are, and so do I. Men like you give bastards everywhere a bad name. Now…where is Arya Stark?”

Ramsay’s face was a mask of fury for several heartbeats, then he smiled.

“She’s gone. She jumped off one of the towers, several weeks back. That dog, Theon Greyjoy, helped her escape. Still…she couldn’t have gone far or survived for long in these winter snow storms. It may reassure you to know that before she leapt towards her death, I unburdened your sister of her maidenhood and fucked her bloody, every day and every night until she trembled at the mere mention of my name.”

Jon had never felt such fury as coursed through him now. _Arya! Raped by a man like this._ For rape it would surely have been. Arya would never have given herself willingly to the likes of Ramsay. _Not just once, but over and over again. Gods, no! Arya, dying in the snows while I was at the Wall._ His hand automatically tightened on his sword hilt and he struggled for control. He was usually able to maintain control in any given situation, but now his control teetered.

A noise distracted Jon. It was a quiet hissing sound and it was coming from the vicinity of his feet. He looked down and realized that his sword sheath was glowing. Not only that, but droplets of molten metal were dropping from the tip of the sheath and hissing as they met the ice cold stones below.

_The sheath is melting. That must mean the blade…_

Jon drew Longclaw. The light was almost blinding. The sword burned an intense white, with flames of red, yellow and even blue rolling off the blade in waves.

Gasps sounded all around him. Jon’s vision cleared and he looked up at Ramsay.

“I may be a bastard, but I know what I am made of. This…this is my fury on behalf of Arya and all of House Stark. Come…let’s see what you are made of.”

Ramsay Bolton looked truly terrified. He stood stock still for a moment, then raced for a doorway. An arrow thwacked into the wood in front of him, courtesy of Val, forcing him to stop. He ran in the other direction, towards the opposite door. Another arrow flew into the wood in front of his face.

Jon had slowly advanced on Ramsay until he was only a dozen steps away from him. The man turned and faced Jon, his eyes automatically sliding down to Jon’s sword.

“Draw your sword.” Jon instructed. “And fight.”

Ramsay gulped, fear etched on his face, but he did as he was told, unsheathing his sword in one long move. Jon raised his sword and watched as Ramsay did the same. There was a moment of stillness, then Jon attacked. He poured all his fury into his moves; one, two, three strikes of his sword, the flames moving with the blade. Ramsay’s countering moves were weak, despite his bulk. Ramsay lashed out with a strike of his own and Jon saw the opening. He twisted in and around Ramsay’s blade and buried Longclaw up to the hilt in Ramsay’s stomach, flames and all.

Ramsay let out a scream of pain, his eyes widened and then he collapsed, impaled on Jon’s blade. Jon pulled Longclaw free and watched as Ramsay’s body slid bonelessly to the floor.

He turned to the stunned, awe-struck lords and ladies.

“Who wishes to be next and who wishes to change their alliegance?” Jon asked.

Lord Manderly stood with difficulty.

“Lord Snow” he said in a shaking but respectful voice. “I have remained true to House Stark all these long months since King Robb’s death. While I was forced through circumstances to appear to align myself to House Frey, I have been taking steps to return House Stark to power.”

Jon allowed his cynicism to show on his face. “Really, Lord Manderly? Was that before or after Ramsay raped my sister?”

Lord Manderly flinched. “Before, my lord. When I sent scouts out to find Lord Brandon and Lord Rickon and return them safely to me.”

Jon froze in shock. He took a deep breath. “Bran and Rickon are dead.” He replied, his voice thick with emotion.

Manderly shook his head. “No my lord, they are not. But that discussion should wait for another time. For now, let us open the North Gate for Lord Stannis.”

Jon scanned Manderly’s face, looking for any trace of deception. He wished he had Ghost here with him. Ghost always knew.

After a moment he spoke. “In that case, Lord Manderly, I think it is time you issued a command to your soldiers.”

Manderly nodded. He turned to one of the soldiers against the wall.

“Brevan, please tell Ser Marrick and Ser Allun that the worm has turned. They will understand. Run lad.”

The soldier turned and ran to do as he was bid. Wyman Manderly turned back to face Jon. He looked at the sword in Jon’s hand, then at Jon’s face.

“It would seem the gods are good after all, Lord Snow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up - Arya. Thanks for all those who've said they're waiting to see her again :o)


	13. Arya

Arya Stark stood in the shadows of Bowen Marsh’s study and waited. She had arrived at Castle Black two hours ago and had been wearing a black cloak she had stolen from Eastwatch, so she had managed to avoid attention. After an hour at Castle Black she had learned of the location of Marsh’s study and after another hour she had managed to slip inside it, via a small high window that overlooked the stables.

She’d had only moments to take in the study before she heard footsteps outside it. She had quickly hidden behind a tall chest of drawers and watched as a red faced, portly man had entered, trailed by two lean, scraggly looking men in black clothes.

One of the scraggly followers was talking as they entered.

“…but Jon Snow said that we should keep the passageways open. He said we would be more vulnerable to attack if we…”

The red-faced man had sat down behind the desk and interrupted his fellow watch man now. “Jon Snow is no longer Lord Commander! I now lead the Watch, until a new Lord Commander is selected, and I will decide what is best for the Watch. Now, do as I say and inform the men that all ranging has been suspended until further notice.”

This, then, was Bowen Marsh. This was the piece of filth who had stabbed and tried to kill the only family Arya had left in the world.

The two lean men exchanged glances but murmured, “yes, m’lord.”

Marsh’s cohorts left the room and closed the door behind them. Arya saw her opportunity. She took one step out from behind the cupboard which had hidden her, towards Marsh, when there was a cry from outside. Marsh ran to the window and Arya stepped back into the shadows again.

A horn sounded. Once. Twice. Thrice. From the moment the third horn started to sound, Marsh’s entire frame went stiff, and as the horn’s note died away he started praying in hushed tones, as he ran to the door and disappeared from the room.

Arya had no idea what was going on, but after waiting a moment or two with no sign of Marsh returning, she crossed to the doorway and peeked out. She couldn’t see anyone in the narrow hallway, but she could hear the voices of many men shouting to one another. They sounded panicked. It was a sound that drew her back to the War of the Five Kings and, in particular, the memory of crouching beneath one of the Frey’s twin towers, as Robb’s men were slaughtered.

Keeping Needle in hand, she drew the hood over her head again and walked to the end of the hallway, until she reached a door that led outside. Once outside, Arya found an alcove where she could watch unobserved. There were men running this way and that, and she noted that they were all armed. Weapons were being handed out. The cage that lifted men to the top of the Wall was halfway up it, and rising. She spotted two black brothers in the yard pointing up at the top of the Wall. Arya looked in the direction they were pointing, but could see nothing.

The horn sounded again; three long blows. It sounded ominous, somehow.

Then a sound drifted down to Arya on the wind. It was the sound of men screaming, far away. She realized that the sound was coming from the top of the Wall and she squinted up at it, but could see nothing other than white sheets of ice.

Then a black-clad man fell from the Wall. Down and down and down he fell, screaming all the way, for what seemed like forever. He finally hit the ground, several hundred metres away from Arya, with a soft ‘whump’ as the snow flew up around his body.

Arya squinted up at the top of the Wall again, and realized she could see movement up there. It was so far away that it was hard to make out, but it looked like a hundred white wiggling worms were squirming at the top of the Wall. The screams and yells were getting louder.

Arya was suddenly flooded by a feeling that she was in imminent danger. The hairs on the back of her neck started to rise and she an instinctive urge to run. Away from the Wall. South.

She started thinking. To go south she would need a horse and food. _Food._

She had come across the kitchens while searching for Marsh. She retraced her steps to them now and barged in; the kitchens were empty. It seemed the commotion outside had drawn the black brothers away.

Without hesitation or much consideration, Arya started reaching for random items she spotted; a loaf of bread, half a wheel of cheese, a couple of slightly wilted carrots. She spotted a skin of some form of drink, and grabbed that too. She stuffed the items into the large pockets of her cloak and headed back outside.

She looked back up the Wall and felt her stomach drop.

The white worms she had seen at the top of the Wall had come closer and were identifiable now. They were not worms, they were legs. Hundreds of white furry legs upon dozens and dozens of massive spiders.

Arya shuddered in horror, unable to wrench her gaze away. The spiders were white, and although it was difficult to tell their size at this distance, Arya suspected they were all as big as destriers. They descended the Wall quickly; the sheer surface proving to be no problem for them. What was worse; Arya thought she could make out white figures seated on the backs of those spiders.

On all sides of Arya, men of the Watch notched arrows to bows and shot at the spiders, but they were still too far away for the arrows to reach. They were wasting precious arrows, she thought. _A man under the command of Father, Robb or Jon would never have made such a mistake._

While slipping past Watch men, Arya kept glancing up at the Wall, so she saw when a dozen more bodies dropped from the Wall. These bodies were not clad in black. She saw the bodies hit the snow and was almost at the stables when those same bodies started to stand.

_No-one could have survived a fall from that height. No-one._

The first body to stand lifted its head and Arya felt a scream threatening to rip from her throat as she took in its visage. Its face was only half covered in grey flesh, the other half showed the bone beneath. Its eyes were a bright, unearthly blue.

Old Nan’s horror stories of the White Walkers and the wights beyond the Wall came back to Arya in a rush.

_Gods. Gods._

More bodies dropped into the snow at the base of the Wall, and more wights slowly stood and lumbered towards the men of the Watch guarding Castle Black. Arya watched as arrows pierced the wights through their chests and heads, without so much as slowing the creatures down.

_Gods save us all. Gods._

Arya backed up against the stable door. The spiders were more than half way down the Wall now and were getting closer by the second. The wights who had dropped from the Wall were hacking and clubbing at the Watch men, seemingly impervious to any wound they sustained. Men of the Watch were dying all around her, and no-one seemed to be in command. Arya spotted Bowen Marsh where he stood under the eaves of Castle Black, shivering in fear; his face now white as snow. _Useless_ , she thought _._

Arya fumbled at the stable door, suddenly realising that she was on the losing side of the battle. The Watch was hopelessly outnumbered. Part of her mind spoke with her father’s voice and said that a good soldier stands beside his fellow soldiers to the end, and that only a craven runs from battle. However the larger part spoke with pure common-sense and said that she was inadequately dressed and armed for warfare, and that retreat was the best outcome the Watch could hope for in this battle. She would benefit no-one from dying now when she could fight the wights again one day when she was better prepared and knew her enemy better.

Decision made, Arya stepped into the stables. She spotted a bow and quiver of arrows, leaning against a pen, and she grabbed them and slung them over her back. She found a horse and, rather than wasting time saddling it, she simply slid the halter over its neck and pulled herself onto its bare back.

Using her knees and feet, Arya urged her horse out the stable entry, while simultaneously pulling the bow off her back and nocking an arrow.

Back outside, the giant white spiders had reached the ground. Each one was taller than a horse and each one had a rider on its back. Unlike the wights, which looked like decayed undead humans, the mounted White Walkers showed no signs of decay on their skeletal white forms. Their eyes were the same luminous shade of blue as the wights.

The spiders were slicing men to bits with their mandibles and their riders wielded swords and spears with deadly force.

Arya spurred her horse towards the road south and she rode hard and fast. Her training in Braavos paid off when she sensed, rather than heard, that she was being chased. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a giant spider gaining on her; its legs moving with hideous speed and its rider’s blue eyes locked on Arya.  In a split second, Arya recognised that it would ride her down in less than a minute unless she went on the offensive.

She eyed the spider for a second before squeezing her legs, effectively reigning the horse in. At the same moment she raised the bow and brought the nocked arrow to her ear. She took a precious second to aim, then she loosed the arrow. It flew straight and true into one of the spiders many eyes. The creature screeched and stopped in its tracks, moving its head and clacking its mandibles in pain. Quick as a flash, Arya nocked and released another arrow, which also hit the spiders’ eyes. It screeched in pain again. The sound grated at Arya’s ears.

As she nocked another arrow, the White Walker dismounted from the spider and started running towards her; a deadly-looking blade in its hand.

Arya hesitated a second, then decided that she did not want to pit her bow and arrow, and Needle, against the Walker. She turned and spurred her horse on down the road. After a few seconds she looked over her shoulder and saw that the Walker could not keep up and she was quickly pulling away from it.

She pushed the horse to its limit and kept it there until the sounds of fighting and the White Walker were lost far behind her.


	14. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi to anyone who has returned back to my little fic. To explain my ridiculously long absence from this fic, I basically gave up on it for a long time because I realised the immensity of the challenge of trying to write one chapter after the next of a connected, flowing story. No wonder GRRM takes FOREVER to publish each book. 
> 
> Anyway....I have given up on trying to write this in such a way that all the characters are represented and the story flows properly. So....fair warning....from here on out I am just publishing random chapters which are scenes I always wanted to write. That means that even though it will be chronological, the story isn't really going to flow and I'm sorry about that, but my imagination just isn't up to the challenge otherwise. 
> 
> Hope you still enjoy it!

* * *

 

“My lord.”

It was a runner in Baratheon colours. He stood before Jon, huffing and puffing. Jon didn’t bother to tell the lad that he was no lord; he’d tried to do so time and again and the soldiers kept calling him ‘lord’. Even Lord Manderly and the other lords and ladies referred to him thus, despite his careful explanation that he was no longer Lord Commander of the Watch. Jon had given up trying to correct them.

“Yes, lad?”

“His Grace would like to see you in his study.”

Jon made his way up to the room which had once been the private domain of Lord Eddard Stark and was admitted. It grated somewhat on his nerves, to see Stannis seated behind his father’s desk, but he kept his face neutral as he approached.

“You wished to see me, Your Grace?”

Stannis looked up at Jon’s face and then, predictably, his gaze slid down to the sheath holding Longclaw. That had been happening a lot lately and Stannis’ attitude towards Jon had changed, almost as though the man were not sure where Jon fit anymore. _Which he probably isn’t. Seven hells. I’m not even sure where I fit anymore._ Melisandre’s evident change of loyalties had spawned widespread gossip throughout the ranks and had created tensions between Jon and Stannis. While Stannis was not openly hostile towards him, Jon was careful not to antagonize the man.

Stannis’ eyes snapped back up and he motioned for Jon to have a seat.

“I have received two letters which I think will be of interest to you.” Stannis opened a parchment in front of him, his jaw working as he perused it. “The first letter has made its way to me via Lord Manderly. He has received word from his maester in White Harbour. Ser Davos has arrived there with Rickon Stark.”

Jon felt a flood of relief wash through him. He suddenly felt lighter than he had in many months. Rickon was alive!

“May I see the letter?” Jon asked. He was desperate to know as much about Rickon’s return as possible. Stannis eyed him speculatively for a second, before handing the letter over. Jon read it quickly; it was brief, but it mentioned that Rickon appeared to be in good health, if somewhat troublesome in his behaviour.

Jon looked up at Stannis and saw, for perhaps the first time, how deep the lines were etched in Stannis’ face and how hollow the man’s cheeks had become.

“Lord Manderly and I have put together a party of some of our most trusted knights and soldiers.” Stannis commented. “They will leave for White Harbour tomorrow.”

Jon took a deep breath and considered that information. He did not want to entrust Rickon’s safety to complete strangers; he wanted to be part of the party that collected his brother. However, in the privacy of his own mind, he acknowledged that there was more important work for him to do here, in the upper north lands, such as helping Stannis ready the north for a possible invasion of White Walkers. He could not hold Rickon’s life more precious than the lives of millions of northern folk.

Jon sat back in his chair. “I would like a full list of those being sent to collect Lord Rickon.” He stated. “I would like to at least meet with those leading the party, before they depart tomorrow.”

Stannis nodded and motioned to a maester who stood quietly in one corner of the room. “Maester Corold will see to it immediately.” The maester shuffled off and Jon kept his face blank of the surprise he felt. Stannis was being accommodating towards him. _He wants something._

“You mentioned a second letter?” Jon asked.

“I did.” Stannis drew forth a second, bedraggled looking parchment. “This arrived this afternoon from a town called Alyc’s Cross.”

Jon knew of Alyc’s Cross; he had passed through it on his way to the Wall with Uncle Benjen. At that time, the town had been a good six hours ride north of Winterfell, by Jon’s reckoning, but in this weather it could take days to reach it.

“The letter was sent to Winterfell by the town’s mayor who has some rudimentary writing ability.” Stannis continued. The frown Stannis leveled at the parchment suggested that Stannis didn’t think much of the mayor’s writing skills.

“He states that a village goat-herd came to him a short time before this letter was written, reporting white shapes moving in the hills, a day’s ride north of the village. The goat-herd, who reportedly comes from a family gifted with the Sight…” Stannis raised his eyebrows to indicate his opinion on that “….told the mayor that the white shapes filled him with ill premonitions. The mayor reports that he would have dismissed the lad’s claims as superstition and fancy, were it not for the fact that two families from outlying northern farms arrived in the village the same day, telling the same tale.”

Jon felt dread settle heavily upon him. “Somehow the White Walkers have made it past the Wall.”

Stannis met Jon’s eyes. “It is possible. Now that you have left the Wall, there is no-one there whom I would trust to keep them at bay.”

Jon blinked at the unexpected compliment. “What do you plan to do?” He asked.

“I will send a letter to Alyc’s Cross, recommending that the villagers flee south immediately.” Stannis replied. I am assured it is a small town, so Winterfell should be able to hold them.”

Jon stared at Stannis. “A letter…you intend to send a letter? A letter will not save them if the White Walkers descend on them and if they flee it is highly unlikely they will be able to outrun the Others.” Then suddenly Jon realized; this was why Stannis had been coddling him over the issue of Rickon’s safety. This was what Stannis wanted of him.

“I cannot afford to leave Winterfell, now that I have established it as my strong-hold. My enemies would be only too quick to take advantage of my absence. And I cannot afford to send any of my men to Alyc’s Cross. I need them all here to defend Winterfell.” The muscles in Stannis’ neck stood out prominently as his chin jutted forward imperiously.

 _His enemies._ Jon thought. _The threat of the White Walkers is still of secondary concern to him; preserving his power is his first concern._

Jon spoke quietly, not allowing the tension that filled his body to be relayed to his voice. “My lord father once said that a lord’s first concern should always be protecting his people. Surely some soldiers can be spared.”

Stannis’ eyes flared with anger and he appeared to be on the verge of saying something, before his eyes slid again to Jon’s sword sheath. They rested there a moment before he looked Jon in the face and spoke. “Perhaps that is why Lord Eddard lost his head. He spent too much time trying to protect the people and not enough time protecting his back.”

It took a considerable effort on Jon’s part to keep his face passive, but something must have showed in his eyes, for Stannis suddenly dropped his gaze and fidgeted, before hurriedly speaking further.

“Besides,” continued Stannis “it is most likely that these village idiots have heard one too many stories of the White Walkers coming in winter and are letting their imaginations run away with them.” Jon could not believe what he was hearing. “But if you wish to go check on their welfare yourself then, by all means, do so.”

 _And there it is,_ thought Jon. _Stannis wants rid of me and my burning sword; he sees me as a threat to his power. He also wants to be able to say he did something to help Alyc’s Cross, should the sightings prove true. So he claims he sent me to help them._   

“I want Mance Rayder and at least thirty of your men, on horse-back.” Jon insisted quietly.

 

“Impossible. Mance is to be burned alive, as you well know, and I cannot spare any men or horses.” Stannis replied.

“Mance is a good leader, an excellent swordsman and a survivor. He came to Winterfell to save my sister, and had he been successful, he would have done you a favour.”

Stannis gave Jon a sour expression. The discovery that ‘Arya Stark’ was actually Jeyne Poole had left Stannis greatly disgruntled. It was nothing however, compared to the crushing disappointment Jon had experienced as he took in Jeyne’s face, after waiting nervously in the Great Hall for Arya’s arrival.

“Pardon Mance,” Jon argued “and you will win some popularity with the free folk.”

Stannis snorted. “Why should I care about the opinions of that rag-taggle bunch?” He asked.

“Because,” Jon countered. “They are resilient, there are many thousands of them and they may support your campaign, if you treat them well. Those free folk downstairs? They know now that Mance is alive and being held prisoner here, and they are none too happy about it. He is a useful man….let me use him.”

Stannis considered this for a moment. “Very well then. You may have Mance…but no soldiers.”

Jon leaned forward slightly.

* * *

 

Jon left Stannis half an hour later, with the promise of fifteen mounted men. He couldn’t believe the amount of work it had taken to negotiate even that out of Stannis. _The man is tighter than a miser at tax time_.

Jon then went and found Lord Manderly. He left Manderly’s presence shortly after, considerably more satisfied with the forty mounted knights and soldiers which Manderly promised him. Finally, he was admitted to the tower where Mance was being kept under lock and key.

“King Stannis wishes the prisoner to be freed and place in my service.” Jon informed the guards, who blinked at him uncertainly. The guards looked at one another.

“Now.” Jon said, injecting authority into his tone. The men moved, and Jon followed them into the room and watched as Mance was unshackled. At the back of his mind, Jon was amazed that the guards did as he bid them without argument. Mance sat of the floor, looking ragged and unclean. He chafed his freed wrists and ankles, before given Jon a long look and rising to his feet.

“What miracle have you pulled off this time, Jon Snow?” Mance asked.

 

Jon gave the man a slight smile and asked a question of his own. “Are you up for a little White Walker hunting?”

* * *

 

Between the free folk who had managed to ‘obtain’ horses (Jon didn’t ask where from), Stannis’ soldiers and those pledged by Manderly, Jon reckoned there were seventy or so men and women ranged behind him, all on horse-back. Some of the free folk looked distinctly uncomfortable on horse-back, but they waited patiently, all the same.

Jon mounted his destrier and looked back. Everyone was ready. _Let’s see if this works._

While coming south to Winterfell, Jon had still been getting used to his sword’s strange new properties, and coming to terms with his change in circumstances, so it had not occurred to him to try what he was about to attempt.

Jon unsheathed Longclaw, waved to the gate-house guards and watched as Winterfell’s doors were opened and the gate raised. When the way was clear, he gave a command to his horse, which trotted forward, already struggling against the snow drifts in Winterfell’s outer courtyard. As his horse began to move forward, Jon lowered Longclaw into the snow beside the horse, the tip of the blade swiping through the snow, and started pulling out his happiest memories. The sword blazed brightly, liquifying the snow it touched and leaving a slushy but manageable trail in Jon’s wake. The radiant heat from the blade extended far enough forward that the snow immediately in front of the horse started melting, allowing the horse to pick up speed until it was moving in a light canter. Jon concentrated hard on the memories.

 _It’s going to work_ , he told himself. _Keep at it._

He exited Winterfell, with Ghost running alongside him and seventy-odd horsemen trailing in the path Jon cleared. But there was little room for them in Jon’s mind.

[He was practicing the sword with Robb and trading banter all the while.]

[He was seated in a window-seat opposite Bran, discussing their favourite stories and scrolls.]

[He was standing still, feeling loved, as Lord Eddard put his arms around Jon in an imitation of a hug, and helped Jon draw back an arrow against a bow for the first time, quietly murmuring instructions as he did so.]

[He was laughing, bemused, as Arya chased away a servant girl who had boldly approached him in the corridor and started flirting with him.]

[He was jogging through Winterfell with Rickon on his back, gleefully yelling instructions to Jon about which way to go.]

[He was in the common-room at Castle Black, seated between Grenn and Sam, listening to Pyp tell funny tales while they drank mulled wine.]

[He was flat on his back, Ygritte’s flaming red hair trailing over his chest as she grinned down at his, calling him her ‘southron man’ before kissing him.]

 

His mind firmly in the past, Jon forged a burning path through the snow and his mixed troop followed close behind.

* * *

They stopped for an hour in the early evening, to eat and rest the horses, before pushing on.

They rode through the evening and into the night, even though riding in the dark was treacherous for various reasons. Jon reckoned that if the White Walkers had been a day’s ride north of Alyc’s Cross, even if the mayor’s raven had only taken a few hours to reach Stannis, they would still arrive at the village almost a full day after letter had been sent.

A day’s wait which the people of Alyc’s Cross probably could not afford. _If any of them are left alive when we arrive, I’ll be impressed._

While it had once only taken Jon six hours to reach Alyc’s Cross, this time it took closer to twelve hours. They were not only hampered by the snow and the freezing temperatures, but also by doubts over whether they were even still on the main road leading directly to the village. Jon could not say for certain that they had not veered off it at some point. Even in the daylight, landmarks were hidden by the snow.

Jon reckoned it was a couple of hours before dawn when they spied what they thought was Alyc’s Cross; small points of light winking in the near distance. As they drew nearer, Jon became more certain they were in the right place, as shouts, screams and the sounds of clashing metal became audible. Not only that, Jon realized that many of the points of light were moving; torches being carried at a run.

Jon urged his horse on towards the village. As he reached the edge of the village, he saw women, children and the elderly all making for the largest building, many screaming as they ran. Down the main street of the village Jon could see at least a hundred village men using axes and other farming tools to fight off the enemy.

Jon guessed there were a hundred odd wights; macabre mockeries of human beings, with their unearthly blue eyes, ragged clothing and rotting flesh. More frightening were the White Walkers. Jon counted six of them and, having never had a clear view of a Walker before, he took few seconds to consider them now.

They had the same unearthly blue eyes as the wights, and they had a human form, but that was where the similarity ended. Unlike the mindless expressions of the wights, their faces showed pure malice and hate, as they chopped down the villagers. They were pure white flesh, covering bony frames, but nothing about them looked weak. They wielded deadly looking blades and the white horses they rode were well-muscled and had the same bright blue eyes.

They were easily five times as deadly as the wights. They moved with unnerving grace and power. None of the villagers they clashed with lasted more than a few seconds before falling.

Jon turned to his troop and ordered thirty of them to guard the women and children in the hall. The rest he ordered to come with him.

“The Walkers are the biggest threat; not the wights. Concentrate on taking them out first.” Jon looked to the wildlings, some of whom had a few precious obsidian arrows. “Save your obsidian arrows for the Walkers and only use them when you have a clear shot.”

Jon ordered a knight to take ten of his men to the back of the train of wights and attack them from the rear. The rest raced forward to the line of villagers with him. As they rode forward Jon drew Longclaw and every Walker stopped what it was doing and looked over the heads of the villagers, as though instinctively aware of the threat.  Five of the Walkers seemed to edge their horses backwards and Jon almost imagined he saw fear in their eyes. However one of them roared wordlessly in defiance, its eyes fixed on Jon, and that was the one he honed in on as they converged on the fight.

From the moment he started to duel the White Walker, Jon knew he was in trouble. It was at least a head taller than him and it had a longer reach. The power behind the evil creature’s first strike was unnerving. Jon thought that if he did not end this duel quickly, he would lose and be killed, for he suspected that the Other would have greater stamina than he. Beside him, Mance engaged one of the Others in combat, and Jon was vaguely aware of knights and free folk mounting combined attacks on some of the other White Walkers. He quickly let all of that fade into the background, concentrating only on the enemy in front of him.

His every thrust and parry was met smoothly and countered with strong, graceful strikes. After what must have been less than a minute, he broke away for the fifth time, gasping in air as he did so. At that second he spotted Ghost, who had somehow managed to position himself behind the White Walker’s horse. Jon met his direwolf’s eyes and then looked away.

In his head, he heard Ser Rodrick. _When it comes down to real warfare lads, the man you’re fighting won’t fight fair, ‘cause he wants to survive just as bad as you do. He won’t expect you to fight fair either. So remember this, when you come up against an opponent who’s bigger, faster or better than you are; use everything at your disposal to win. It might be insults, it might be throwing your dirk at him, it might be something in the surrounding grounds that could trip him. Use whatever you can to survive. There’s no shame in that._

Without looking at Ghost, Jon made a hand motion with his left hand. It was one of a number of hand motions he had taught the direwolf when he was a pup, so they could communicate silently, if needs must. It meant ‘attack’.

Ghost leapt, caught the Other’s horse by one of its hooves and gave a great heave backwards. The horse made no sound of pain but it was immediately unbalanced and it started to teeter towards the ungrounded leg. The Other turned briefly to find the source of the problem and in that split second, Jon attacked, driving his horse forward and striking with his sword. The Walker, sensing its mistake at the last moment, turned back to face Jon and began to raise its sword, but too late. Longclaw caught the Other across the right shoulder and left hip, gouging a deep line of fire across the creature’s chest. It screeched in pain and lifted its sword to meet another of Jon’s thrusts, however all the strength suddenly seemed to have gone out of the white skeletal frame, for Jon’s second strike knocked the blade out of the Walker’s hand.

The Other’s eyes blazed malevolence as it reached behind its saddle for something. Jon wasn’t waiting to find out what. He kneed the horse in even closer and thrust Longclaw into the Walker’s chest. The creature let out a second screech, longer and lounder than the first. The hand which had been grasping for something behind the saddle dropped to its side, then reached up to claw ineffectively at Jon’s sword, where it was lodged.

There was a moment when the Walker remained whole and then, like a fragile pane of glass hit by a rock, its body started to shatter and fall to the ground piece by piece, like so many icicles.

When it was nothing but icicles at the feet of the undead horse, Jon looked around, checking for any enemies advancing upon him. He spotted Ghost, only a couple of feet away, savaging the head off a wight. The direwolf looked up at him and seemed to give a canine grin, his eyes and teeth gleaming red in the torchlight, before placing himself besides Jon’s horse.

Mance was still close to Jon, dispatching a White Walker. The creature Mance had been fighting had multiple deep gashes across its chest and face. Its sword arm hung at its side and its head sagged on its chest as thought it were dead, however Mance did not seem to be taking any chances. He kept hacking at it. Jon rounded the side of Mance’s Walker and put his flaming blade to it. Instantly, the Walker went up in flames. Mance joined Jon, put a boot to the Walker and pushed it off its horse into the snow, where it lay motionless as it burned.

 Nearby one of Manderly’s knights, working with two free folk spearwives, was dispatching a third Walker. A fourth White Walker lay a short way beyond them; Jon pushed his way through the line and set it ablaze.

In short order all six of the Others were destroyed. The village men, who seemed to have taken heart from the appearance of Jon’s troop, had been working with most of Jon’s fighters to hold the wights at bay.

Between the mounted fighters and the villagers, the wights were now well outnumbered and they were quickly cut down and put to the torch. Before long there were two great piles of their burning corpses, creating flames that lifted high into the sky and illuminated the edge of the village and a little of the landscape beyond. When the last wight was heaved onto one of the pyres, the villagers finally had a chance to look around at their rescuers. Jon was conscious that many of them were staring either at him, his sword or Ghost, who remained at his side.  

Jon turned to Mance, who favoured him with a grin.

“You know,” said Mance, “from the moment you walked into my camp I suspected that you’d be a good man to have around in a pinch, but I have to say….” Mance trailed off, as he glanced towards the northern end of the village. He squinted for a second, then his eyes widened.

“Gods be good,” breathed Mance.

Jon turned to see what had succeeding in frightening Mance and he tried not to recoil as he took in the sight. Hundreds upon hundreds of wights were descending out of the northern woods, with the strange lumbering movements of the undead. Jon estimated there were around two thousand, all told.

Behind him, Jon heard some of the villagers start to wail in fear. Jon turned and looked at the flock of people behind him, huddled in front of their village. _The village cannot hold against that many wights. No moat, no walls, nothing._   _It has no natural defenses. Unless…_

Jon turned to consider the countryside around him and suddenly he recalled that when he and Uncle Benjen had passed through this way back in autumn, there had been a huge lake at the southern end of the village, to the right side of the road. The wights would not be interested in the village buildings; it was the killing of living creatures which interested them. Wherever the villagers went, the wights would follow. If the villagers were at the far side of a huge lake…

Jon thought about it a moment longer, but he saw no other options. He looked to Mance and the knights who represented Stannis and Wyman Manderly. “The villagers must retreat, but not down the main road; through the woods to the right of the road instead. I want ten armed men to lead them and another ten to protect their rear.”

“And the rest of us?” Mance asked.

“Are going to hold the wights off and give the villagers a fighting chance to escape.” Jon replied. He saw eyebrows being raised and heads shaken in fear.

“Jon.” This was Mance again. “You cannot expect fifty men to destroy two thousand odd wights. It’s impossible.”

“It’s suicide,” commented Ser Uther.

“I don’t expect you to destroy them. Just herd them, like sheep, to make sure that when they chase the villagers, they chase them over the frozen lake.”

There were frowns of confusion all round.

“I don’t understand,” said Mance. “Surely you’re not expecting the ice to give way under them? True, there are a great many of them, and that’s a lot of weight, but that lake is probably frozen solid, and not likely to crack any time soon.”

 

“I intend to make it crack,” replied Jon. “And this is what I need you to do.”

* * *

Five hundred terrified villagers ran for the tree line, having run as swiftly as possible around the lake. Jon hoped the wights were as stupid as they appeared to be. He watched from the southern shore as his fifty remaining men and women formed two lines, twenty-five apiece, on either side of the lake, creating a short wall of fighters on the eastern and western banks. Each of them had a burning faggot of wood in their hands and they stood just behind the ditch they had hurriedly dug. The wights had made it through the village and were lumbering towards the lake now; their bright blue eyes fixed on the retreating villagers.

Jon whistled and watched as his fighters lowered their torches to the makeshift ditches, and the flames of their torches dimmed and flickered briefly. Then the oil they had spilled into each ditch caught fire. The oil barrels had been rolled down to the lake from every prosperous business in the village. The lit oil now burned brightly, creating a low wall of flames in front of each of Jon’s line of fighters.

The wights had spread out as they approached the lake, but faced now with flames on either side of it, they did as Jon had hoped and they were funneled inwards; all of them moving to cross the lake to catch the human quarry they could see disappearing into the tree line on the far side, where Jon stood.

The first of the wights stepped onto the ice and Jon saw them struggle to maintain their footing on the slippery surface, but they somehow managed to keep lumbering forward. On either side, Jon’s fighters unsheathed their swords and nocked arrows to bows.

Jon waited patiently on the far shore, counting the seconds and knowing that each minute that passed was a minute further which the villagers had managed to run. If his plan failed, they would need every second of head start he could give them. And the vast majority of the wights had to be on the ice before he made his move.

He waited. It was almost painful, to watch such a deadly enemy advancing closer, one creeping minute after the next, and do nothing.

Eventually, Jon judged that the leading wights were three-quarters of the way across the ice. Now seemed like the time. He heard Mance whistle, confirming his thoughts and, placing his feet carefully on the dirt-covered ground at the lake’s edge, he lowered Longclaw to touch the icy surface.

Jon tried to bring forth strong happy memories, and Longclaw did begin to melt a hole through to the lake below, but it was taking too long. Jon realized that, faced with such an enemy, trying to grasp happy thoughts was nigh on impossible. He switched tack. He began thinking, instead, of all the things that had made him angry in his life, starting with his recent encounter with Ramsay Snow.

He pulled out older and older memories, vaguely aware that Longclaw was blazing with the brightness of the sun and the ice was quickly receding, as the surface of the lake became watery again.

Too many of his angry memories, he realized, revolved around Catelyn Stark.

[He and Robb ran into Winterfell’s Great Hall, both happy but grubby after play-fighting, but he was the only one whom Lady Catelyn looked at with disgust in her eyes.]

[Lady Catelyn ordering fine, new clothes for all her children for when a notable lord came to visit, but conveniently forgetting him.]

[Lady Catelyn telling him it should have been him who fell, not Bran.] 

He was dimly aware of wights being plunged into the lake, as the ice beneath them melted away. They thrashed in the water, managing to stay afloat and slowly they moved forward. He concentrated harder.

[Overhearing someone asking ‘who is that?’ and Sansa’s voice, embarrassed, saying in an offhand manner, ‘Oh, that’s just my bastard half-brother, Jon. You don’t need to meet him’.]

[Theon Greyjoy, mocking him and telling Jon that the reason girls rarely approached him was because no respectable girl would want to be caught consorting with a bastard.]

The wights were all in the water now and they were making for the shore. There was no more ice covering the lake. The water within fifty metres of Jon had steam rising off it. He was dimly aware of arrows being fired from the shore at the wights. But there were too few arrows; too many wights. It wasn’t enough. He plunged back into the angriest thoughts and memories he could find.

The silence in response to the Watch’s pleas for aid in fighting the White Walkers. Stannis, still refusing to place the lives of the smallfolk above his own damned crusade for the Iron Throne.

Sansa, forced into marriage like a slave. Robb, murdered at a wedding feast, then Grey Wind’s head attached to Robb’s body, in a gruesome insult to his title as the Young Wolf.

Father, beheaded for uncovering the Lannister’s filthy lies. Beheaded for standing up for all the principles he had ingrained in his children. Beheaded when, by all accounts, he had been promised mercy and a chance to join the Watch. _Father could have fought alongside me, if not for that monster, Joffrey. He could have been Lord Commander instead of me. He would have made a better Lord Commander than me. He would have watched my back, and I would have watched his. We would have survived; together._

_He could have been here beside me now, fighting the White Walkers._

The water in front of Jon was starting to bubble, and the rolling boil quickly spread towards the centre of the lake. The fighters on the bank had run out of arrows and were poised, waiting for any wights that might make it out of the lake. Jon was conscious that they were watching him as they waited. Longclaw blazed; the water around the blade churning viciously.

_Father! Why did you die and leave me with this mess! You always seemed to know exactly what to do in any situation and I’ve needed your advice, your wisdom. I still need it. But you bloody well died on me!_

With that rare burst of unjust anger towards someone he had loved deeply, Jon felt something inside him flip, and suddenly he was so heavily weighed down by sorrow, it was hard to remain standing.

The wights thrashing in the lake were screeching now; a high-pitched and inhuman screech of pain as the boiling water started to burn their frozen bodies. One after another they caught alight, as though they were coated in oil, while they struggled towards the shore.

Jon barely saw or heard them, immersed in sorrow. He felt as though he were caught in an undertow and was being pulled inexorably towards his deepest pain. Father, Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon. All of them either killed or driven into hiding. Ygritte, dead in his arms because of his decision; a decision he’d make again today if he had to. Winterfell in ruins.

_All I’ve ever loved, turning to ashes around me. If this is the end of the world, will the gods force me to watch it, when everyone else is dead? Please, no._

Then he remembered that Rickon was alive, and being returned to Winterfell. Bran was most likely still alive too. Jon pushed back the sorrow and forced himself to think differently, to find more hope.

_Arya might still be alive too, and Sansa. The direwolves are strongest in winter, when all around them grow weaker. Those villagers behind me are still alive, as are the men and women I brought with me. There is hope. As long as we fight together._

Longclaw flared even brighter for a second and Jon was forced to close his eyes for a moment. He opened them at the sound of splashing. He watched, motionless, as a burning wight tried to pull itself up onto the bank he was standing on. It struggled for a few seconds, trying to find purchase on the icy bank, before it slid down under the water. It did not resurface.    

Jon looked across the lake. There were still some wights, burning and thrashing in the boiling water, but most seemed to have been destroyed. The dozen or so that had made it up the banks were engaged in armed combat with Jon’s fighters. Jon knew he should go and help, but suddenly he felt utterly exhausted and empty, like a scarecrow with the stuffing suddenly pulled out of it.

Longclaw flared and then the flame died completely. Jon felt his legs give out beneath him and darkness clouded his vision. After that he felt nothing.


End file.
